


The Ashes of Urst Natha

by Zhenta



Series: Shifting Targets [4]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 115,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24334456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhenta/pseuds/Zhenta
Summary: Part IV; Throne of Bhaal. Concludes the Shifting Targets series.
Relationships: Viconia DeVir/Rasaad yn Bashir
Series: Shifting Targets [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1288625
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. Baldur's Gate

**Author's Note:**

> Writer's Note: Welcome to the concluding part of the Shifting Target series! I'm astonished that so many of you (by which I mean any) have stuck with it this long. It was never my intention to write a War and Peace length fanfic. It just sort of ended up that way. Special thanks to Nimloth of Thay, Nikoru Sanzo and Karona_False_god for your support.
> 
> While I was writing parts 2 and 3, I tried to make them work as standalones (more or less), but to do the same with this one I'd need to recap huge swathes of context. I had a go, but it didn't work. This story needs at least passing familiarity with the series in order to make sense.

Boos and jeers rang out from the crowd as Duke Silvershield pulled away the blue velvet cloth with a flourish. Torchlight gleamed from the statue's eyes, against a backdrop of glittering stars. His latest attempt to win over the people of Baldur's Gate was magnificent but it wasn't enough.

This statue of Gorion's Ward he had commissioned was nine feet tall and solid marble. Freya's cold stone face was a familiar sight in Baldur's Gate these days. There were tributes to her everywhere. Some were even larger than this one, but this was by far the most expensive. The Duke had paid for it out of pocket, complaining privately that they ought to be building statues of his daughter Skie instead. Not his hated, vulgar, common daughter-in-law who had wed Skie while roaring-drunk without his knowledge or permission.

The public were not blind to his lack of sincerity.

"Murderer!" the familiar cry rang out. Two of the Flaming Fist pushed forward into the crowd, but it was too dark to find the heckler.

"Freya was the best thing that ever happened to this city!"

"We know it was you what killed her!"

Silvershield slunk resentfully behind his captain of the guard. Uncomfortable creeping guilt tightened once more around Captain Corwin's heart. She forced herself to look up at the statue.

The artist had created an unnervingly accurate likeness of Freya, the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Or as she had preferred to be known in life, the _Bitch_ of Baldur's Gate. The people had forgotten this last part though, as they had forgotten most of Freya's glaring flaws. Despite her lycanthropy she had been popular with the mob. So loved, in fact, that when Duke Silvershield had her arrested for Skie's murder it had almost triggered civil war.

In death the charismatic werewolf was practically worshipped in the city as a god. Her beautiful chiselled face, and winning wolfish grin were set in stone wherever you went. Even the Flaming Fist, whom the Bhaalspawn had briefly led before her untimely demise, had insisted on raising a great stone effigy of her. Much to Corwin's dismay.

"It wasn't my fault," she muttered. She told herself this every day as she passed under Freya's grinning statue on the way into work. "I'm sorry you're dead. Even if you were an arsehole."

Her final conversation with the hero had been horrendous. Corwin had known deep down that, much though Freya might have regretted her marriage to Skie once she'd sobered up, she would never have killed her wife.

Corwin had known that Freya was innocent but jealous fury had got the better of her. She'd said things she could never take back, when what she ought to have done was unlock the cells and run away with her.

Suddenly her trained eyes caught sight of a hooded shadow slipping through the throng. Someone was pushing her way toward Duke Silvershield with unnatural ease. Raising a bow in front of the angry crowd was likely to lead to a catastrophic misunderstanding, but Corwin gave the signal to herd their leader back to his estates, losing sight of their pursuer at the street corner.

Yet somehow, when they reached his quiet, moonlit gardens, they found their stalker perched on the steps waiting for them.

"Who are you?" barked Corwin. "Show yourself!"

The stranger lowered her hood to reveal deathly pale skin, mean little fangs and sharp, predatory eyes. Yet upon closer inspection, it turned out that the vampire was no stranger after all.

"Jaheira? You're alive?"

"Obviously not," the vampire replied raising an arched eyebrow. She turned to the Duke, who backed away.

"Begone monster before I run you through!" he blustered.

"There's no need for that. I have something for you," Jaheira informed him briskly, holding out a thick paper parcel.

Silvershield reached out for the hefty package but Corwin intercepted it. She glared suspiciously at the messenger and opened one corner. There was a smell of tanning oils and a hint of golden fur.

Adrenaline and nausea struck Corwin like a tidal wave. She closed the package hastily, glancing anxiously around. If her fellow officers were to know, or even guess at its content, all three of them would be strung up by the statue before dawn.

"Oh gods," she whispered, "You sick... fuck you! I will see you staked for this!"

She made a move to grab her, but the undead messenger pushed her to the ground with impossible strength. Corwin dropped her parcel as she fell. The Duke picked it up curiously. He lifted the tear that his captain had made in the wrapping and stiffened.

"Is this your notion of humour?"

"Not at all," replied Jaheira sweetly. "It is a consolation gift from Mistress Bodhi, Irenicus's sister. You once said that if Freya failed your daughter again then Skie would wear her flayed fur as her funeral shroud. Well… here it is."

The Duke hurled the package at her in a fit of impotent rage.

"Get out of my city and take this disgusting… thing… back to your masters!"

"I wouldn't advise that," Jaheira warned him. "They won't like it."

Duke Silvershield grimaced. He had not forgotten Irenicus's irresistible power. Only the Hero of Baldur's Gate had been able to put up any sort of meaningful fight against him, and she was currently folded up in the parcel as a fur coat.

"Very well," he conceded.

"You cannot possibly be serious!" cried Corwin, blanching.

"I have a new wife to think about, and you have a young daughter," the Duke muttered. "Skie is gone and Freya was our only hope of getting her back. We'll put the coat on Skie, and then bury her in the family mausoleum before anyone sees it."

"You're going to bury your daughter…" Corwin began, then eyed her officers who were listening with ill-disguised curiosity. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "You're going to bury your daughter in her own wife's _skin_?"

"Think of it as laying a married couple to rest together," the Duke replied repressively. He took a shuddering breath and resigned himself. "I do not like this any more than you do, but I fear our options are limited."

Jaheira smiled, bearing her pearly fangs. It was a good thing she'd got hungry on the road. Otherwise she wouldn't have snacked on that rider from Suldanesselar, and Silvershield would know that Irenicus was dead.


	2. Follow the Trail of Blood

The moon shone full in her hollow sky. No breeze disturbed the still water of the lake. Not so much as a lone minnow ascended from its black depths to create a ripple. A night such as this spelled calm.

Yet Rasaad could scarcely find the self-discipline to sit still. Dark rage coiled about his heart like a venomous snake. If he could not find some semblance of inner peace now, on a night like this, when could he ever?

Viconia was not helping. As a drow on the surface, she had always been prone to bouts of crippling terror, but these days it was like he was living with a meerkat. The slightest rustle from a nearby bush and she would use a day's worth of defensive spells in one go. He could not stir a cooking pot, nor speak when she was not expecting it without her flaming sword appearing reflexively at his throat.

Long gone were the days of her scorning Arowan for her feebleness. Viconia missed the weak and pitiful Ilmatari. She would even welcome back her rival for Rasaad's affections over what the fallen ranger had become. In the months since they'd been apart, Viconia's terror of Gorion's Ward had blossomed, fed by the drow's own fevered imagination. These days it rivalled even her fear of Lolth.

After all the goddess had to stay her hand for the time being, whereas Arowan might turn up at any time.

Rasaad's dark eyes flickered to his shoulder, still marred by a small round arrow scar. He had acquired many other much more noticeable marks since but he'd grown to particularly dislike this one. It was leftover from when the ranger had shot him in a forest the day they first met. With hindsight, perhaps he ought to have recognized that for the bad omen it was.

They had been tracking the fallen ranger for months now, but they always seemed to arrive too late. Again and again it was the same story. Wherever she went she left a trail of traumatized people in her wake. Entire towns purged of their evilly aligned population, militia sent to capture her reduced to the good and neutral members who passed her test.

No bodies though, never any bodies. Those who fell beneath the blade of Dorn Il-Khan were raised instantly into her army. Few had seen the Adversary herself, save from a distance, riding a monstrous spider. None had heard her speak. All they could do was point the party in her last known direction.

Then there was Sarevok. Rasaad loathed aiding him. The man had almost started a war which would have drowned the Sword Coast in blood in his pursuit of godhood, and the monk was convinced that given the chance he would do it all again. Nothing in the other man's grim, sneering demeanour suggested otherwise.

"What are we doing?" Sarevok had demanded, slamming his father's sword into the ground in frustration. "We have been wandering aimlessly for months, and I still cannot fathom whether we are hunting Arowan or hiding from her."

Viconia had taken this as a personal attack. She rounded on him like a viper, half-screaming.

"What do you suggest we do?" she cried. "It is true that I have no idea where she is, or what we can do if we find her! She cannot kill me, but how can I get close enough to strike with the powers she has now? Even the gods cannot help while that accursed demon Ur-Gothoz casts his protective umbra about her."

"I am not accustomed to skulking in the woods like a frightened badger!"

"Actually badgers are quite vicious animals…" Rasaad began innocently, but he faltered into silence as hostile red and gold eyes turned on him.

"Then leave!" Viconia thundered at Sarevok.

The demigod faltered, and she folded her arms with a superior smirk. Sarevok may have regained his soul and with it the ability to use his father's sword to its full effect. Yet he was as much Arowan's target as Viconia was. More so, because he was actually killable, and the ranger needed all her siblings dead before she could harness Bhaal's essence.

In other words, Sarevok Anchev needed Viconia and Rasaad far more than they needed him.

"Just tell me," he grimaced, trying to keep his tone respectful, "Are we looking for the Adversary, or avoiding her?"

"I would hunt her down if I could," Viconia spat. A bird took off from a nearby tree, rustling the leaves. Just this tiny disturbance caused adrenaline to course through her and her heart began to thump. "I cannot go on like this forever."

"Besides, if we do not stop her, she will destroy a third of the world's population," Rasaad agreed solemnly. "Entire races will be wiped out. Only I do not know where to begin looking."

"Hunting Bhaalspawn is easy," Sarevok had informed him from personal experience. "Just follow the trail of blood."

And so they did, but it was proving to be anything but easy.

* * *

* * *

Beneath the same moon, in Baldur's Gate, a drunken noble was stumbling home toward his plush apartments.

He had not been a nobleman for very long, transitioning from destitute rogue to the wealthiest man in the city with one stroke of a lawyer's pen. It was a dry night but a sharp northern wind was cutting through his clothes and stinging his green eyes.

Coran's eyes were still framed by a jade mask, but these days he wore it more out of habit. He wasn't a thief anymore, for what was the point of stealing when he had more gold than he could give away? Skie Silvershield and her cronies might have had him strung up. After all, he had been Freya's closest ally. Yet he had been distributing his dead friend's wealth to the poor in such quantities that it was having a stabilising effect on the rebellious city.

He blinked back tears. Flanked by bodyguards but utterly alone.

Nothing to steal and nobody to romance. There was no thrill of chasing love for a man so wealthy that people threw themselves at him wherever he went. Or at least threw themselves at his money. It had been fun at first. Threesomes and foursomes soon became vast drunken orgies, yet the novelty had quickly worn thin.

Closing his eyes, he remembered stumbling equally hammered down this very street, one arm over Freya's shoulder and the other over Safana's. He'd had to hop, because Freya was so tall that his foot on her side did not quite touch the ground. The golden demi-god had barely noticed that she was half-carrying him as she helped herself to his ale.

" _I didn't know my friends,"_ he thought miserably. _"I didn't know them at all."_

Safana, who he had always realised was selfish and mercenary. Yet he had also believed that deep down her friends meant more to her than money. She had proven him wrong. Arowan who had grown into a necromancer so twisted that she had raised Safana as a zombie before his eyes… and Freya.

Freya, at least, he thought he had understood implicitly. He had never, not for an instant, believed the accusations that she had murdered her wife. Yet her flayed fur coat had arrived in Baldur's Gate and when they placed the horrible artefact on Skie's shoulders the curse on her had lifted.

Skie had sat up, started talking, thrown her emaciated arms about her overjoyed father.

Coran, like all the nobles, had been invited to attend her first speech. The other lords and ladies, gathered on the ground floor of the Ducal Palace had eyed him with a mixture of suspicion, fascination and envy. A combined desire to crush this pretentious upstart, while at the same time salivating at the wealthiest bachelor in Baldur's Gate and wondering how they might absorb him into their families with minimal loss of status.

Skie had appeared, wearing Freya's golden coat, to the rapturous applause of everybody except him. He had stared at the remains of his dead friend, feeling like he was being strangled, unable to move or speak. The risen noblewoman leant unsteadily on her father's arm, but when she spoke her voice was strong and clear.

The elf had listened in a daze, barely able to register her words as she confirmed that Freya really _had_ stolen her soul, intending to rule without her.

It seemed impossible to him now, as he wandered drunk and empty down the alley. He was headed the wrong way but he had no wish to go home and be alone with his thoughts. He didn't know what he wanted. Something was happening in the market square. There was a distant flickering of firelight and someone was playing music.

It sounded like a party. Coran began heading toward it in the hope that someone or something there might lift his spirits.

This was a mistake, for it was no party at all. The mob were toppling another of Freya's statues. They had tied ropes around her marble torso and neck and were heaving with all their might, despite the obvious danger of being crushed by her bulk.

Baldur's Gate had loved and worshipped their Hero. They had almost started a civil war to save her from Duke Silvershield's wrath. Though most of them had never met her many had been ready to die for her and every last one of the commoners felt personally betrayed.

The music was coming from a lone bard with oily black hair. He was watching the Hero of Baldur's Gate creak and leaping with joy, so gleefully that he seemed bordering on deranged. Coran's mouth dried. It was Eldoth, and he was singing about Freya. A crowing, catchy song listing all of her crimes. Wife beater. Murderer. The heir of Bhaal.

With one final heave the statue fell, landing with an almighty bang and cracking the cobblestones. The crowd roared with approval, leaping onto the monument to their former-champion. She still wore her cocky grin as she lay on her back looking at the sky, but something about the artist's rendering seemed strained now.

"Sir?"

One of Coran's bodyguards placed a metal glove gently but firmly on his arm. Coran did not move nor take his eyes off the statue, even as Eldoth dropped his pants to take a piss on its face.

"Sir we should get you home," the guard said urgently. "We can't defend you against this many and they knows you was her friend. We'd best be off."

Reluctantly Coran turned from the red and orange firelight and walked slowly into the darkness.

* * *

* * *

"Are you alright Sir?" the guard asked as Coran stumbled into his bedchamber. There was no colour in the elf's skin, and his hollow eyes had lost their dance.

The elf turned back numbly and asked the man, whose name he could not even recall;

"Do you believe she did it? Do you believe that Freya killed Skie?"

"Of course, Sir!" the guard replied immediately. "But don't be blaming yourself milord. You weren't to know what she was. None of us did. Me own little lass had a stuffed yellow wolf toy. She cried something heart-breaking when I had to take it off her, but she'll understand when she's older."

Coran nodded slowly and closed the door to his room. It held a magnificent four poster with red velvet hangings of the kind Safana would have loved. Erotic paintings so skilfully rendered that the nymphs looked like they could leap from the walls surrounded him. A clever gnomish chandelier twinkled above, lit by enchanted candles which could blink on and off with a clap of his hands.

There was nothing left now. Nothing to hope for, and little to look back on with fondness which was not tainted by the monsters his friends had become. Perhaps what they had always been.

Sex was nothing. Food was nothing. Drink was no more than a medicine which had long ceased numbing the pain. All that was left now was his old adventurer's pack, filled with items that he no longer needed but could not bear to throw away.

No. There was one thing in his pack that was still of use to him.

He opened it and began pulling things out. Some of the items, pots and pans, he threw straight on the floor. Others held memories which he looked at before putting them aside. There was a tacky carnival ring that Freya had won for Safana from a Wheel of Fortune. A huge ruby, the Heart of the Basilisk that the mad dog had acquired fighting the beast blindfolded. A tooth from the dragon they had slain together, a bottle of Safana's perfume and the Girdle of Femininity.

The last one, a divine artefact created by Bhaal, had rendered him a woman for weeks on end. He'd had a stressful, angsty adventure trying to get it off. It had all seemed so important at the time. The key to undo it, a tiny pink-purple gem, sat embedded in the clasp. According to Freya it contained a drop of Bhaal's own blood.

"You murdered your wife," he whispered to it. "You really were just Bhaal the whole time. My best friend was the Lord of Murder. What does that make me?"

At the mention of the dead god's name, Coran thought he saw something flicker in the gem. He shuddered and placed it at the foot of the bed. Then he came to the item in the pack he had really been looking for.

His adventurer's rope.


	3. Valas DeVir

Coran had died once before, killed in a battle with the enraged husband of the mother of his child. He hadn't thought of Namara before he slipped the rope about his neck but it was too late to consider her now. There was nothing he could think about but the pain.

First time around death had come quick and unexpected. Almost like falling asleep. This was a violent agony, every second of it seemed to go on forever. His legs kicked and his fingers scratched frantically at the rope, trying to claw it away from his throat. He couldn't breathe and his bulging eyes felt as though they were about to pop from his head.

Calling for help was impossible, but he tried to kick the posts of the bed he was dangling from. The rope cut his fingers but he ignored that and fought on to escape, struggling until he had no energy left to struggle. His hands flopped weakly to his sides dripping blood onto the bed below, but he remained conscious and the pain went on.

As everything blurred and he felt his life slipping away, one tiny drop landed on the girdle. Unnoticed, it seeped into the pink-purple gem which suddenly glowed a hellish red.

The room swam with infernal light. Coran was vaguely aware of someone or something cutting him down. He wished they would hurry up. Knowing that he still had a chance brought him a second wind. The rope snapped and he crumpled onto the end of the huge four poster before collapsing onto the floor.

Desperately, he choked and gasped for air, ripping the remnants of the rope free of his battered neck with what little strength he had left. Inhuman noises rattled up his windpipe as his body fought to regain the oxygen he had tried to deny it. He was alive. Praise the gods he was alive! How could he have done something so stupid in one moment of madness? He would triple the pay of the guard who had cut him down!

Coran rolled onto his back, chest heaving, staring up at the tall bed. A vision swam in front of him. Crouching on top of the four poster, chunks of gnawed rope lodged between its teeth, was his saviour. It was no guard.

He did not have the breath to scream, but he was certain that he must have died after all and this was hell. There was nowhere else a creature like this could have come from.

A skinless dog looked down at him with bulging grey eyes. It's white-streaked bulges of red muscle seemed to be sweating blood.

It opened its muzzle, a nightmarish knot of muscle and ligament, before letting out an unearthly howl. Still hacking and helplessly sucking in lifegiving air, there was nothing that Coran could do. The vision before him blurred, his consciousness was slipping away.

The last thing he remembered was boots thundering up the stairs. He felt their vibration through the floorboards. Someone was hammering urgently at the door and calling 'Sir! SIR?' There was a sudden smell of pine and splintered wood as they kicked it in, and the howling stopped abruptly.

He remembered no more.

* * *

* * *

_The wheels of prophecy e'er turn,_

_Gorion's ward hath come._

"A cursed forest of ghosts and whispers," Dorn grunted, his lip curling. "We should leave."

Arowan peered at an array of carved stone heads strewn about the woods with mild curiosity. They had glowing blue eyes which blazed whenever they spoke. She had tried to prise one out with the tip of Soultaker but without success.

"Dorn, you are surrounded by the dead day and night," she replied archly, gesturing at the purposeless zombies milling about them. "Do get a grip."

_That which hath past is ne'er truly gone;_

_A god that once hath been may be once again._

"Not if my patron can help it, he won't," muttered Dorn. "Bhaal is dead and we will see to it that he stays that way."

Arowan leaped lightly from one sacred rock to another, indifferent to the fact that this was clearly a holy place. Her cold eyes turned to Anomen who was squatting on the ground his hands bound and his expression listless. She shot an ice arrow at the ground in front of him, just for the sake of it. He flinched and screamed.

_Bhaal's servant deceived; five led down a false path..._

"Soon to be four. Where in Faerun is my little stalker? I'm getting bored."

There was a yelp and a sudden scuffling noise some distance away in the forest, followed by a scream that went on and on. Anomen struggled to his feet, staring wildly about him like a startled deer.

A clicking sound of slender legs approached from the branches above. Anomen moaned, earning him a disgusted look from Dorn.

Vast and ugly, its shiny black carapace gleaming in the moonlight, a drider crept down from above. It had the eight-legged body of a spider, but the torso, arms and head of a man. Had it not been for his arachnid half he would have been an exceptionally beautiful male with chiselled features, wild silver hair and scarlet eyes. Viconia's eyes.

He was holding a woman in his arms. She had been hastily bound in spider silk about her mouth and arms, but her legs were kicking like an angry rabbit.

"Valas! You naughty boy! Don't go taking silly risks like that," crooned Arowan. "How would I break it to your sister if anything happened to you? I know she'll be so happy to see you. Well? Let me see what you've brought me."

The drider dropped the bundle at Arowan's feet and she looked down at her captive with hollow eyes. Nothing but a common assassin, though she had tried to make herself look impressive. Her hair was cut into a severe bob, her eyes painted with a bandit mask and of course the obligatory black leather coat.

"Run along now Valas," Arowan said. "And stay in the camp. Be a good boy like Gamaz, otherwise I will have to hurt you."

Her voice hardened with those last few words and the drow scuttled away. Convincing Valas to fear her after so many years beneath the whip of Lolth's Handmaidens had been no easy feat. Breaking in Viconia's cursed brother had meant resorting to tactics that even Dorn would have objected to had she let him watch.

No matter. The mindless spider-man was hers now. She bent down and ripped away the spider silk that was sealing the assassin's mouth closed. A few of Arowan's zombie warriors were lumbering over, eyeing the captive's cranium with interest, but she shooed them away.

"Illasera will destroy you, necromancer!" the assassin spat as soon as her lips were freed.

"I was hoping that _you_ were Illyssia," Arowan replied icily. "How disappointing."

"Illasera!" corrected the captive fiercely. "Illasera the Quick, mightiest of all the Bhaalspawn!"

"Whatever."

A chuckle rang out from the trees' deep shadows. Dorn hefted his sword, looking about him eagerly.

"You won't be disappointed for long," purred a second woman who looked very similar to the captive. She slunk out from the shadows, ignoring Arowan's zombies who lurched toward her stupidly. Another dozen emerged, surrounding them. They had all taken to dressing like their leader, and cutting their hair in the exact same style.

"Coordinated outfits," Arowan noted. "Interesting idea. Perhaps I should start dressing Anomen and Dorn up to look like me."

She tugged her white gloves down her wrist and straightened Irenicus's robes. They had always been slightly too big for her, but this was more noticeable now than it had been in Suldanesselar because she had lost a great deal of weight.

Fixed on an unalterable course by the power of numbing potions, Arowan no longer cared for anything except destroying evil and not becoming Bhaal. She had the means to achieve both goals, by harnessing Bhaal's essence. Not in order to reign as a god herself, but to detonate it, destroying all sentient evil in Toril in the process.

So fixated was she upon slaughtering her siblings and harvesting the essence, that she often forgot about other things. Basic, necessary things like eating and sleeping. She had to be reminded by Dorn at regular intervals, otherwise she would simply not bother.

Nobody, Anomen had been noticing more and more as time went on, was reminding her to bathe. Even with the power of the charisma ring, this was becoming very apparent. She left a trail of dank, stale air behind her wherever she went. She stank of death. Though since Dorn was also not in the habit of bathing, the Blackguard never mentioned it.

Arowan's army, being dead, raised no objection so Anomen was left to suffer alone.

"Which one is the Bhaalspawn?" Dorn asked Arowan under his breath.

"Who cares? Slay them all. The one whose body turns to powder when they die… that will be the Bhaalspawn."

One of the women, wearing a strangling leather catsuit stepped forward, whip in hand.

"So I have found you at last," she smiled. "It was an effort to track you down in these woods, Arowan. Too many old wards for my liking… but your spider led us right to you. I may yet mount your head on my wall with all the other Bhaalspawn I've killed… I haven't decided."

Arowan smiled thin-lipped. If this hunter had truly killed other Bhaalspawn she would know that mounting their heads on a wall was impossible. This amateur had never seen another Bhaalspawn die and turn to dust. A big mouth but a small threat.

As Illasera began to weave her incantations, Arowan idly stepped back and let Dorn get on with it. Two of her zombies, a man and a drow, fell at once to the assassins' blades. It hardly mattered. Another five closed ranks to take their place.

There were dozens more of them dotted about these woods, just in case. Arowan had spotted Illasera's hunters stalking their army days ago, but after capturing one and torturing her for information, she had realised that they would never engage her while she remained with the bulk of her forces. They were waiting to get her alone. Investigating these mystic rocks gave her an excuse to oblige them, taking a small contingent and leaving the remaining dead on the road to moan and forage for brains.

Illasera's assassins attacked, while Arowan watched dispassionately. Dorn had grown better at killing to order, settling for one quick thrust through the midriff while avoiding any damage to the arms, legs and spine. Such kills made for better zombies and it was not long before their souls were separated from their flesh. The souls would be dispatched into hell to feed Ur-Gothoz's growing legions. Their bodies rose up at once, fresh fodder for Arowan's own mouldering army.

Seizing his opportunity while Dorn and Arowan were preoccupied, Anomen stole a dagger from the belt of a newly raised assassin as she lurched toward her former leader. He concealed it hastily beneath his breast plate, where the edge pricked him uncomfortably, but it was worth it for a chance to escape.

There was no escape for Illasera. Dorn savoured her last expression of terrified disbelief, before the golden ashes of dead Bhaalspawn rained down upon him.

"Hey, check it out Anomen, Dorn's taking a golden shower," Arowan pointed out. Anomen's face remained stony, though this was hard to see beneath his beard. It had grown full and bushy from months of neglect, making him resemble the Athkatlan beggars he had once scorned. Arowan rolled her eyes at him. "Fine, don't have a sense of humour. You always were a sulky brat."

She stretched out her colourless, bird-like limbs and whistled for Valas. The drider scrambled out of the woods, half-tangling his own back legs in his haste to obey his mistress. A silver collar with a chain attached dangled from his throat and she used this to haul herself onto his back.

"Where to now?" asked Dorn.

The spider-silk bound assassin still lay on the floor but with her leader's death, her defiance had left her.

"This Illasera didn't strike me as the type to hunt me down just to bring me to righteous justice. I assume she was after the same thing I am, the death of our siblings. Perhaps she knew where more of them are. You in the leather! Where was Illasera planning to go after she murdered me? Tell me, and I will let you join my army instead."

"Saradush!" the assassin cried hastily. "Almost all of the Bhaalspawn are there! Melissan gathered as many as she could into the city for protection! You will be safe there!"

Arowan cocked her head to one side. Long brown hair spilled over her shoulder. Her freckles stood out more than ever against her snowy skin. They looked far too human for what she had become.

"For protection?" she mocked. "Gathering them all into one place for _protection?_ What's to stop someone like Illasera from slaughtering the lot of them like sheep in an abbatoir? Would you like to reconsider your answer, in light of the fact that I am not an idiot?"

The captured assassin had to think fast, weighing up her chances between staying loyal to her previous masters or this new one who seemed more powerful than any one of them individually. Except perhaps Yaga-Shura, but the assassin had heard rumours about what happened to women who volunteered to fight for him.

"Melissan has gathered the Bhaalspawn into one place so that the five most powerful (I mean _four_ now) can butcher them," the assassin jabbered, making her choice. "She means to let Yaga-Shura sack the city! She and the five want to bring back Bhaal and then they can serve at his right hand!"

" _Illasera_ was one of the five most powerful?" Arowan replied, motioning to Dorn. The half-orc unsheathed Rancor and moved toward the prone assassin with obvious intent. "Wow. Being the last Bhaalspawn standing is going to be a lot simpler than I imagined. I was expecting to face Freyas and Sarevoks at the very least. Not that I'm complaining mind you."

"Stop!" screamed the assassin frantically as Dorn loomed over her. "You promised you'd let me join your army."

"And I do mean to keep my word," Arowan reassured her sweetly. "But in case you hadn't noticed, my army is composed of corpses. It's kind of a prerequisite if you want to enlist."

There was a whistle of metal and a gurgle of blood. Arowan watched dispassionately until the assassins' body had stopped twitching, then raised it up.

"Onward!" she cried, clicking her heels against Valas's flank. "To Saradush!"

* * *

* * *

Coran woke up in stuffy gloom in his own bed, healed but uncomfortable. At first he wondered if the whole experience of the previous night had been a grotesque nightmare, but then he tried to swallow. The blinding pain in his throat, coupled with the sight of his own splintered door, told him that at least some of it had been real.

"He is awake," a man's voice said softly.

Though it was agony to turn his head, Coran looked sideways to see an aging cleric of Ilmater who had been dabbing his wounded throat with purple paste.

Coran tried to ask the man if they had killed the monstrous wolf but no words came out. The old healer and the guard peered at him for a while, trying to lip read, but eventually concluding that he was gibbering nonsense.

"What do we do with him?" the guard asked the healer as though Coran were not there.

"Nothing you can do I'm afraid, except to keep an eye on him and hope he doesn't do it again," sighed the cleric. "We've taken out all the bedsheets and sharp objects and boarded up the window."

Coran grimaced. That explained the stuffiness.

He tried to speak again to ask them to open it. This time the cleric caught his meaning but shook his head kindly. The elf felt a bite of impatience at their mothering. There was no need for it. One suicide attempt had been enough. Coran had regretted his actions the moment the rope went taut, and not just because of how much it hurt. But there was no use trying to convince his wardens of this without the use of his voice.

"Is there anyone we can get for you Sir?" asked the guard, wiping sweat from his brow. "Friends…? Family…?"

For a moment Coran thought about Namara's mother, but he quickly dismissed the idea. No sense in dragging his little girl into her father's cartwreck of a life. He shook his head and the healer sighed again with infuriating pity.

After a while, growing sick of the uneasy way they were eyeing him, Coran feigned sleep to get them to leave. As soon as the door closed he sat up and looked about his barren room. The red velvet hangings were gone along with almost all his possessions. He was lying on a bare mattress. Anything that could prick his skin, poison him, or wrap about his neck had been confiscated.

"What I don't understand," he heard the guard telling the healer in the corridor, "Is how the bleeding hell he was howling like a wolf before, but he can't say a word now!"

Coran froze. Their footsteps died away, but now he regretted their leaving. His memory of those last moments was hazy, but he was almost certain the howling could not have been him. Moving was agony, but he forced himself to pad over to his wardrobe. He opened it. Empty. Really empty, for they had even taken most of his clothes. He peered behind his chest of drawers. Nothing but a fossilized apple core.

Slowly and painfully he dropped to his hands and knees, placed his head on the floor and peered under the bed. To his relief he found nothing there. Then something occurred to him. He pulled a fluffy armchair next to the bed and balanced on it to look on top of the four poster canopy. Monstrous grey eyes gleamed back at him.

He screamed, or tried to, but no sound came out of his injured neck. As the skinless wolf squeezed itself through the gap between bed and ceiling, he toppled off the chair in shock. The wolf jumped down beside him, landing with a soft thump. It was carrying the Girdle of Femininity between its fangs. His mouth opened and shut while feeble high-pitched wheezes escaped.

The grinning monstrosity sat on its haunches in front of him and cocked its head to one side. There was something very familiar about it. He stopped attempting to scream, it hurt too much to continue, but his heart continued to pound with terror.

HAVE YOU QUITE FINISHED?

How exactly it was speaking was not clear, given the lack of lips or human vocal cords, and yet the voice was clearly coming from it.

BLOODY HELL CORAN, THIS IS SOME DRAMATIC BULLSHIT EVEN BY YOUR STANDARDS. THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PLAYING AT?

Coran dropped to his knees, shaking violently all over his body. The voice was different, but the words it was using…

"Freya?" he managed, in barely more than a whisper.

The wolf dropped the girdle and scratched its ear with its back leg, sending blood droplets oozing down its furless neck.

NO. WELL, YES… IN A SENSE. KIND OF.

The horrific avatar was far less threatening when it was pawing the ground and mumbling uncertainly.

BHAAL. I AM BHAAL. OR AT LEAST I'M MOST OF ME. HANG ON CORAN…

The dog put its head down on the floor and placed its paws over its eyes as if it had a splitting headache. Rubbing its muzzle on the ground as though trying to dislodge a tick, the wolf said to nobody in particular;

COULD THE REST OF YOU SHUT UP FOR A MINUTE PLEASE? IT'S EASIER IF ONE OF US SPEAKS AT A TIME.

Coran was panicking again. His auburn hair was plastered to his face with sweat. He flattened himself back into the green velvet folds of the armchair. They had even spirited away the cushion though he could not see how they imagined he might harm himself with it.

"What do you want with me?" he mouthed. "What are you doing here?"

YOU SUMMONED ME!

The outraged wolf retorted, jerking its head up. Petrified, Coran shook his head mutely.

FUCKING HELL, THIS IS VICONIA AND THE TEMPLE ALL OVER AGAIN. WHY DO MORTALS DO THIS? YOU GO TO ALL THE EFFORT OF SUMMONING ME, ONLY TO FREAK OUT WHEN I SHOW UP!

"I never summoned you!" Coran wheezed. "Get away from me!"

YOU INVOKED MY NAME AND SHED BLOOD ON ONE OF MY ARTEFACTS. IF THAT ISN'T SUMMONING ME, I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS.

"Then I unsummon you!" the elf forced himself to say. Tears pricked as his throat screamed in protest at trying to form words. "Begone!"

NO! WAIT! CORAN!

Bhaal yelped, his lidless eyes looking up at the spot where Coran had tried to hang himself from the four poster.

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS! AH… SHIT!

The wolf popped out of existence, leaving only the girdle behind it.

Coran stayed motionless in the chair for a long time, gripping the arm rests and listening to the sound of his own rattling breathing. Judging by the pieces of rope trapped between its teeth, the wolf had chewed through the rope to release him.

If it was telling the truth and it really was an avatar of Bhaal, then Freya was not truly dead. Yet nor was she exactly alive. The dead Bhaalspawn were merging back into one, just as their father had always intended. Yet part of Bhaal was still Freya. He must be. Otherwise why would the Lord of Murder personally intervene to save his life?

He heard footsteps returning up the corridor. Somebody was coming to check on him. Without thinking, he seized the girdle and thrust it under the mattress, for they would certainly take it from him as they had confiscated everything else in the room that could be wrapped about his neck.

Summoning Bhaal was something that Coran was sure no follower of Hanali had ever attempted before, but he had to know how things had ended up as they had. Had Freya changed at the end, or had she always been capable of wife-murder? Had their entire friendship been an act?

Bhaal was right, he decided. They did need to talk.


	4. Sacrifice

Anomen had faced some pretty bad times since leaving the Order, but he had never woken up in a spider's web before. Valas was patiently turning him slowly, like a spit roast, wrapping him in layer after layer of sticky silk from his abdomen.

"Unhand me, abomination!" Anomen thundered.

The drider ignored him, and spun on. He had not bothered to remove his victim's clothes. Presumably he meant to dissolve Anomen in his own armour and suck out his juices through his visor.

So far the silk was up to his middle and his arms were already pinned to his sides. He tried to pull them free but the sticky silver strings were deceptively strong.

"Can you speak?" Anomen asked.

Valas said nothing, continuing to loop silk from his rear end as though Anomen was not there. The failed squire flinched in disgust. He was nothing but a meal to this creature, his words of no more interest than the buzzing of a fly.

"Did Arowan give you permission to eat me?" he shouted. "Arowan? AROWAN?"

Only there was little hope of rousing his captor-in-chief. Valas had dragged him to the edge of the camp to feast, as the only living meat available. Arowan could not hear him.

Calling it a 'camp' was a bit of a stretch since Arowan's army required neither food nor rest. She and Anomen were the only ones who had tents. Dorn shared Arowan's though the two were never in it together since the wary pair made a point of never being asleep at the same time. Really their 'camp' was just a horde of undead warriors meandering aimlessly past each other like sheep in a cramped pen.

As dawn approached they began to dig themselves shallow graves and cover themselves in strips of oil cloth. It made Arowan appear vulnerable, but this was deceptive for she could call down a false night at any time if the need arose.

There were so many races gathered here now. At first they had almost all been drow, but the dead of Urst-Natha had since been joined by humans, halflings, dwarves and gnomes. Any village they passed, any band of adventurers they stumbled upon would be subject to his Detect Evil spell.

Once he had dared to call Arowan's bluff by refusing to cast it, but the fallen ranger was not bluffing. She had shrugged at his defiance and calmly butchered an entire town, leaving only the children behind to fend for themselves. Anomen had not been able to bring himself to refuse her order since.

_Order… The Order…_

They would not be able to defeat Arowan herself, only Viconia could do that. Yet an army of paladins could obliterate her undead horde in a matter of hours. He had to get to them, he had to warn them.

Keldorn and the prelate knew about the coming cull and had been taking steps to investigate it when the party left Athkatla. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. He had parted with the Order on sour terms, yet it would be ridiculous for them to dismiss the information just because it came from him.

Not so long ago Anomen's stomach would have turned at the very notion of asking the Order for help, but the endless parade of slaughter that he had witnessed in these past months made him wonder if they hadn't been right to reject him all along. He felt less for the evilly aligned themselves as for the hysterical grief of those around them who had passed the test. Their parents and spouses and children. The fields which would go unploughed, the famine that would follow their departure. All of it was his fault. He had been the one to feed Arowan numbing potions instead of letting her die as she had wished. All of this was his doing and the Adversary never tired of reminding him of it.

Anomen suspected that part of her reason for keeping him around was to punish him, for his hand in what she had become. Though he doubted whether the numbed addict _realised_ this was what she was doing. Yet he had his own way to atone for his sins. He would humble himself at last and beg for Keldorn's aid.

Only first he had to get out of this accursed web.

"Well, well, well."

Anomen jerked his head back, tangling his hair in yet more web.

"Dorn! Dorn get me out of here."

The blackguard smiled at him. It was not a friendly smile.

"I think not. Your petty whining has been a thorn in my ear for long enough. Valas's venom can melt you. Perhaps you will make a better soup than you did an ally."

"Arowan won't let you-" Anomen began urgently.

"Arowan is asleep," sneered Dorn, "And when the Little Lamb wakes, I will tell her the truth. That Valas carried you off as a midnight snack, and that I found you in his web. I may choose to omit the part about you still being alive at the time."

Anomen thrashed his body right and left, with all the efficacy of a stranded fish.

"HELM AND ALL THAT IS RIGHTEOUS CURSE YOU DORN IL-KHAN!" Anomen bellowed. The half-orc smiled to himself and walked calmly away. "I SWEAR BY ALL THAT IS HOLY THAT I WILL BE THE ONE TO FINISH YOU. YOU SHALL DIE AT MY HAND! VICONIA CAN HAVE YOUR BITCH OF A MISTRESS BUT YOU ARE MINE!"

He tried to free his hand, but it was caught fast in the silk. He panted with exhaustion, his filthy bearded face inches from Valas's smooth hairless chin. The drider had stopped attempting to wrap him up and was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"Viconia!" Anomen gasped, almost smiling with relief at having found a topic that the creature would respond to. "Viconia is my friend. She told me about you. You saved her life, didn't you? Then the other drow punished you by turning you into this?"

Valas looked down at his own warped body and his face contorted.

"Viconia…"

It was the first time that Anomen had heard the drider speak. Had he studied drow lore (or indeed voluntarily studied anything which wasn't directly applicable to combat) this might have surprised him.

Usually, following their transformations, driders were driven away to live out their cursed lives on the fringes of drow settlements, keeping pests and enemies at bay with their constant hunting. Valas, however, was a special case. He'd had the grave misfortune, rare for a male, of attracting the Spider Queen's personal attention. The Servant of all Faiths had particularly offended Lolth by her treachery, and as long as she could not have Viconia she'd contented herself with her brother.

All the miseries that awaited Viconia once Lolth got her in her web had first been practised on this poor creature. There was little left that was sentient in the repulsive beast, though Anomen could not pity him. After all, he was trying to eat him alive.

"I am sworn to protect Viconia," he insisted. "But I cannot aid her if you eat me. You must let me go!"

"Viconia…"

"Yes, Viconia," Anomen agreed tersely, unable to keep the impatience from his tone. "Are you going to release me now or not, vile creature?"

In reply the drider let out an unearthly screech that would have put a banshee to shame. A cold sensation gripped him as Valas reared up on his hind legs, front legs waving madly. The drow's eyes burned as it slashed at the web, ripping out a chunk and Anomen fell to the ground, still bound.

Valas slashed at him wildly, and it belatedly occurred to Anomen that after suffering years of unrelenting torture on Viconia's behalf, Valas may no longer be the devoted brother he once was. He stuck his bound legs in the drider's direction and hoped for the best.

The drider tore at him again, this time ripping away enough silk that Anomen was able to free his hand and start cutting away the rest with the stolen dagger. Unfortunately Valas also gouged his leg deeply, and when Anomen got to his feet to run it was with a limp.

He stumbled through the camp, shoving the digging zombies aside in his haste, but he could not outrun the spider with its many legs. Poor Anomen was almost relieved to see Arowan emerging, glassy-eyed from her tent to subdue the beast. She caught Valas in a glowing green net of necromantic energy, but his talk of Viconia had sent the monster into a feral frenzy and even Arowan had to focus to maintain control.

Seeing his chance, Anomen fled from the camp, only to find Dorn Il-Khan hastening a few feet away to intercept him.

"If you catch me, the first thing I'll do is tell your half-dead bitch how you almost let me die without permission," he panted. "If you value your life Blackguard, you'll let me run."

"Arowan will not kill me," chuckled the Blackguard. "She is reliant on my patron's good will."

Anomen knew that even with the benefit of a sword and shield he would struggle to best Dorn in a fight. As it was his choices were: battle the half-orc with nothing but a dagger, run away on a wounded leg or surrender and give up any chance of escape.

From his limited list of options he chose to run, improving his odds by Turning Undead as he fled. The sea of zombies parted before him, wandering into other zombies until they clustered between himself and the half-orc. It was enough to slow Dorn down, but he would still have failed to get away, had Arowan not at that exact moment lost control of Valas.

Dorn's head jerked between his prey and the Adversary, but he really had no choice. With a roar of frustration he let Anomen go and tore back to protect her. Anomen fled for his life, not daring to look back.

* * *

* * *

Famished and filthy, Anomen ran by day and slept by night in whatever cave or stable he could find. He was reduced to begging in every town he came to and even stealing from farms in order to survive the long journey north. After a few days his abused body succumbed to sickness, but he stumbled on even with his nose streaming and head pounding.

There was no sense in trying to find Viconia now. She might be anywhere in the vast wildernesses between here and Athkatla, but he still left a message in every tavern who would listen to a ragged beggar like himself and he scratched one onto every road sign.

"Arowan has gone to Saradush."

Perhaps his efforts were in vain. At this rate, he predicted, it would take him at least a fortnight to reach Athkatla, by which time the Adversary could be anywhere. Yet he had to try to reach the Order. There was no other way he could help.

* * *

* * *

"Well done Valas. What a good boy," Arowan purred, stroking her suddenly docile drider's silver hair.

There was a time this sudden change in her demeanour would have confused Dorn, but he had been travelling with Arowan for some time now and had grown used to her _modus operandi._ He was furious with himself as much as anyone else that he had fallen for it yet again. With a roar, he hurled Rancor to the ground.

"You intended to let Anomen go all along!" he blasted the accusation.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You are an atrocious actor Dorn," Arowan replied levelly. "I had to make it look convincing. Even now he is scuttling away to tell Viconia that we are on our way to Saradush."

"Aren't we?"

"Whatever for?" she asked, inspecting her fingertips coldly. "Illasera's little minion told us that Saradush is a trap. I couldn't care less whether this Yaga-Shura butchers the Bhaalspawn or I do, as long as they die. Let them fight it out amongst themselves and I'll pick off the survivors. Shouldn't be too challenging if Illasera was anything to go by."

Dorn folded his bulky grey arms. This was not a plan to his liking, but none of Arowan's schemes were. The parts involving outright violence and bloodshed he could get behind, but this cold-blooded plotting was not his style.

"But Sarevok…" Arowan sighed. "Sarevok is a problem."

"Let me take him! I would relish a battle with Sarevok. He is a true warrior. Slaughtering him would be a match for the ages."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure it would," replied Arowan in a bored voice. "But if my brother has even a speck of a brain between his cauliflower ears, he will have allied himself with the Servant of all Faiths. I cannot win in a direct confrontation with her, and he knows it. Not when she has the blessing of every god. I must avoid her until I have obtained Bhaal's essence, but I still need Sarevok dead."

"You are hurling him into the path of this Yaga-Shura in the hope that he will do your dirty work for you?" Dorn growled disparagingly. "Some might call that cowardice."

"I am incapable of either courage or cowardice since either would require me to feel fear," Arowan replied icily. "But since I have no feelings to hurt, I will let your remark go."

They watched as the last of the dead burrowed into their shallow graves, just as the sun crept over the horizon. Arowan gazed at it, staring directly into the blinding light, in a way which might have damaged her sight if Dorn hadn't dutifully placed his palm across her eyes.

"Then where are we going really?"

Arowan smiled wanly.

"Before you joined our party," she said gingerly, "We came across a curious individual by the name of Alorgoth. He controls the Dark Moon cult and is a favoured devotee of Shar. I believe that he can be manipulated into assisting me. Both Rasaad and Viconia have history with this man. Rasaad in particular... It was Alorgoth who converted his brother from Selunite to Sharran and introduced him to numbing potions."

"I care not for the pitiful woes of Rasaad yn Bashir, save in so far as I can add to them!"

"Alorgoth in turn harbours a deep resentment of Viconia," Arowan continued, ignoring Dorn's remark. "It eats at his soul that the chosen one should be any follower of Shar but him. Especially a Sharran who has taken a Selunite for her lover and was involved, however reluctantly, with the Twofold Trust. He considers her a traitor to their goddess and has tried to destroy her once before."

"Tried and _failed_ as better men have before him," Dorn pointed out.

"That was because of a direct intervention from Bhaal himself," Arowan replied. "Nobody is going to summon my father this time around. And I don't necessarily need Viconia destroyed. Just kept out of the way until the last of my siblings is dead. I believe that Alorgoth could be tricked into arranging this."

"A cunning plan indeed," sneered Dorn, "With one minor flaw. We do not know where Alorgoth is or how to find him."

"What a pity I didn't think of that!" the necromancer cried, faux-swooning with regret into Dorn's broad chest. "Oh, how lucky I am to have a towering intellect like yourself to point these things out to me. Where would we be without you to mastermind our plans?"

Dorn did not deign to honour this with a response.

"How will I ever contact Alorgoth?" she gasped, tapping the side of her cheek with one long gloved finger. "What a shame that I don't have one of his favourite protegees under my complete and unconditional control. Oh wait… I _do!"_

"Gamaz," Dorn muttered resentfully, eager to bring Arowan's comedy routine to a close.

" _Well done_ Dorn!" Arowan beamed patronizingly. "We got there in the end. We'll ask Gamaz how to find him. What a useful pair my enemies' siblings are turning out to be! A shame Moira's remains are unavailable. I didn't have any real use for Anomen's sister, but I'd have liked the set."

"As you say," Dorn muttered.

Arowan turned to him with a pretty, vacant smile. The light of the rising sun lit her wavy hair and freckled face, giving her a waiflike glow.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters Dorn?"

* * *

* * *

Cunning though she could be, Arowan had made one miscalculation for less than a week later when his voice returned, someone did attempt to summon Bhaal.

This was not easy, because Coran had been deprived of anything sharp, but he managed to extract a very small quantity of his own blood by picking a scab off his neck and holding it to the girdle of femininity.

"Bhaal?" he whispered with an anxious glance at the door. "Bhaal I… er… are you there?"

At first, he thought it hadn't worked, but then the belt glowed in his hand and the skinless wolf materialized with a sound of roaring flame. Coran blinked. It was a fraction of the size it had been before.

Proportionally it was still the same beast. Same exposed flesh, same bulging eyes. Only pocket sized. Almost literally; a teacup-hellhound. Ugly, but not remotely intimidating.

"BHAAL I… ER… ARE YOU THERE?" AS PRAYERS GO, I'VE HEARD BETTER.

"I'm not praying to you!" Coran whispered emphatically. "I just wanted to talk. What… what happened to you?"

The beast turned its head this way and that, inspecting its own mutilated body. Then it shrugged, squeezing blood-sweat from its shoulders as it did so.

IRENICUS SKINNED ME ALIVE. I'VE BEEN STUCK LIKE THIS EVER SINCE.

Coran had already known about Freya's gruesome death. He'd had more nightmares about it than he cared to count, and yet nothing his imagination had produced quite lived up to the hideous reality.

"No, I meant your… erm… size."

The reduced wolf scampered over to him and patted the girdle with its tiny paw. Last time it had been about the same size as Freya had been in life. Now it was the size of a chihuahua, and a runt chihuahua at that.

LESS BLOOD. SIZE MATTERS WHEN IT COMES TO SACRIFICES. SIZE AND CONTEXT. YOU GAINED POINTS FOR BEING A CLOSE FRIEND AND ALMOST DYING. LOST POINTS FOR THE LOCATION.

"The _location?_ So if I'd hung myself from the balcony of the Ducal Palace you'd have been even bigger?"

YUP.

"That's ridiculous."

HEY, I DON'T MAKE THE RULES. THERE'S A REASON THE CLERICS BUILD THOSE VAST TEMPLES WITH THE FANCY ALTERS. DIVINITIES THRIVE ON DRAMA. IF YOU'D ACTUALLY DIED, I COULD HAVE SHOWN YOU SOME OF MY POWERS TOO!

"You cannot be serious."

YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN ME WHEN RASAAD DID, A FEW MONTHS AGO IN THE TEMPLE. THERE WERE DOZENS OF DEAD MONKS AND THEY MADE ALL THEIR BLOOD SQUIRT OUT OF THIS FOUNTAIN THING. IT WAS AWESOME! I COULD BREATHE FIRE AND EVERYTHING!

"Sounds… great."

THAT EROWAN… NOW THERE'S A MORTAL WHO KNOWS HOW TO PRAY.

"Listen, Freya," Coran groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Or whatever part of you is still her. I need to ask you about Skie."

GREAT! THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT TOO! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME GET HER SOUL BACK.

Coran's face shot up in disbelief.

"You bastard!" he cried, his green eyes flashing. "You are unbelievable! The poor woman only just escaped your curse and you plan on taking her soul from her _again?_ And you want _me_ to help you do it? Why would I?"

Bhaal cocked his small, repulsive head to one side. His little tongue lolled from a crack between his teeth in a goofy sort of way.

SKIE HASN'T ESCAPED ANYTHING. I FAILED TO GET HER SOUL BACK! DID I MENTION THAT I GOT SKINNED ALIVE TRYING?

"You haven't heard?" Coran muttered, running his fingers through his auburn hair. "Skie has been revived. When you didn't come back everyone thought it was hopeless. Even her own father had given up on her."

THEY HAVEN'T BURIED HER HAVE THEY?

Bhaal suddenly sounded panicky.

"No, just the opposite. She's ok now," Coran reassured him.

THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE.

"It is. As soon as they put your coat on her, she broke free of whatever curse you put her under!" Coran's voice suddenly hardened. Talking to Bhaal had felt so much like talking to Freya again that for a moment he had slipped into the comfort of familiar conversation and forgotten her crimes. "Skie is alive again, and she told everyone what you did when you were Freya! The whole city knows you tried to murder your wife!"

Bhaal's tiny draw dropped so far that without the aid of flesh it dislocated and hung loosely from the rest of his canine skull. Apparently this did not impede his speech.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

Coran looked at the repulsive apparition. Bhaal was all that was left of what had once been his best friend and he… curse him for a fool… but he believed him. Bhaal hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about which meant that Freya really hadn't murdered Skie.

He buried his head into his palms and burst into tears of relief, and of guilt for thinking her capable of it.

Something wet and warm pressed against his cheek. At first he thought it was his own tears, but then he realised that they were moving up instead of down. The weight of two miniature paws pressed into his thigh. Bhaal was licking his face with his tiny canine tongue.

The elf had not much liked this form of affection when Freya had been alive, and that was when she'd had fur like a normal wolf. He shuddered, but plucked the tiny dog off the floor and held it tightly. Part of his mind (the part responsible for common sense, which had always been the weakest part in Coran) told him that this was the Lord of Murder and that everything about his situation was unhealthy and wrong. Only he'd been so lonely for so long…

YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME WITH THAT ROPE-CRAP CORAN. YOU NEVER, EVER DO THAT AGAIN.

"I won't, I promise."

FUCKING ARSEHOLE.

At length the chihuahua hopped from his arms and brought him the belt, insisting that it needed more blood if their conversation was to continue. Coran scratched open his scab and refreshed it again, allowing the little dog to remain on the material plane.

It hopped up onto the armchair, bringing its bulging little eyes to a level with Coran's wet, green own. He knelt by the chair, his head pounding.

MATE, I KNOW YOU'RE IN A BAD PLACE RIGHT NOW BUT I NEED YOUR HELP. I HAVE TO GET SKIE'S SOUL BACK TO HER. I STILL OWE THE SILVERSHIELDS A DIVINE DEBT AND I MIGHT NOT HAVE LONG TO REPAY IT.

"You're immortal. You have forever to pay it."

I DON'T RECKON I DO. THE PROPHECIES ARE COMING TO A HEAD. IF VICONIA CAN'T STOP THEM, THE LAST LIVING BHAALSPAWN IS GOING TO DETONATE MY ESSENCE. IT'S POSSIBLE I MAY BE DYING. FOR REAL THIS TIME.

"But Skie is already back," Coran said as comfortingly as he could. He patted the dog awkwardly on its sticky, damp skull.

Bhaal shook his head. News of the mortal world was in short supply in the Abyss. They'd had a few visitors on Irenicus's death and heard the echoes of Amauna's prophecies but other than that nothing. Yet he was bonded to the Silvershields by his own immortal essence. If Skie had truly been liberated from the Soultaker dagger he felt sure he'd know.

CORAN I THINK… I THINK YOU'D BETTER SHOW ME.


	5. Saradush

Satisfying Bhaal's request to see Skie took almost a month. Coran could not simply saunter onto the Silvershield Estate and request an audience. Grand Duke Silvershield had loathed him from the first moments of their acquaintance, and Coran's elevation to the aristocracy had hardly endeared him to the man. Especially since Silvershield was of the opinion that Skie, and not Coran, ought to have inherited her wife's estate.

Instead he and Bhaal would have to wait for the next big date on the upper-class social calendar, which came in the form of a wedding. Coran was not personally acquainted with the bride and groom, but he found himself the recipient of many such invitations at the insistence of matchmakers eyeing up his fortune. Each time an event was put to him, he asked if Skie would be in attendance, but until now the answer had been no. His interest in her had not gone unnoticed. Unbeknownst to him, an unsavoury rumour was making the rounds that he might marry Skie himself, much to the Duke's dismay.

In the meantime, his staff had been gradually lifting the restrictions on him so that life for Coran was approaching what passed for normal these days. His appetite for human cuisine, absent since Freya's disappearance, had returned to him and he looked fuller in the face. The beginnings of a second chin were threatening to eclipse his throat once more.

Not that this was a bad thing, for his neck was badly scarred from the rope. Looking into his golden framed mirror there was no denying that it would be painfully obvious what the mark signified to anyone he met. Whatever the weather now, everywhere he went, Coran would have to wear a thick scarf, a high collar or one of those silly lace ruffles like the other nobles.

"I look like a pillock."

YOU ARE A PILLOCK

Coran pouted and tried to make the lace lie a little flatter so that it looked less effeminate. The effect only gave the impression that he was wilting.

"Thanks for that… Bhaal? Or should I call you Freya?"

BHAAL IS MORE ACCURATE. FREYA IS IN HERE, BUT SO ARE A LOT OF OTHER PEOPLE. IT MIGHT TAKE A WHILE FOR US TO ALL BLEND PROPERLY, SOME OF MY PERSONALITIES ARE MORE COMPATIBLE THAN OTHERS.

"Doesn't remembering all those lives at once get confusing?"

I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE IT.

"Try."

Bhaal's presence made Coran feel edgy, but edgy was better than depressed. He had been reopening his wounds, dripping blood onto the girdle and summoning Bhaal more often than was strictly necessary. Almost twice daily, in fact. Whether or not Bhaal was Freya was a question he was struggling to wrap his head around. The answer, it seemed, was simultaneously yes and no. Bhaal was the lake and Freya one of many droplets. Now all the droplets were merging back into the whole.

Was this whole still his best friend or a strange and terrifying god? The answer, Coran was disturbed to discover, seemed to be both. Bhaal opened and closed his sinewy jaw a few times, searching for the right words to describe his mental state.

YOU KNOW HOW THIS MORNING YOU WERE COMPLAINING ABOUT BEING A NOBLE? DEALING WITH ALL THE SCHEMING AND GOSSIPING AND FACTIONAL POLITICS?

"Uhuh?"

TRY HAVING FACTIONAL POLITICS IN YOUR OWN BRAIN.

"That sounds rough," Coran nodded.

He had noticed that every so often Bhaal's personalities seemed to get into internal disagreements with each other. When this happened the Lord of Murder tended to do unsettling things like pounding his head against furniture or covering his face with his paws and moaning. On one occasion, he had caught Bhaal attempting to suckle a throw pillow, which he'd shamefacedly explained was the mental influence of the scores of Bhaalspawn who'd never made it past infancy. One look at Coran's revolted expression had been enough to make him desist.

IT DOESN'T HELP THAT WE ALL SPLIT APART AGAIN EVERY TIME WE GO BACK TO THE ABYSS. IT'S DEAD AWKWARD WITH THE SHARED MEMORIES. I MEAN, HOW ARE WE MEANT TO LOOK OURSELVES IN THE EYE WHEN WE'VE REMEMBERED PICKING EACH OTHER'S NOSES, SQUEEZING SPOTS OR GETTING THE SQUIRTS?

Coran winced. There were plenty of things that he'd done in his life that he wouldn't like everyone else remembering. Minor, inconsequential things, that everybody does but nature did not design to be communal experiences.

IMOEN SAYS HI.

"Imoen… I didn't know you were dead," Coran mumbled awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

It seemed a pathetic response even to him, but how do you offer condolences to someone on their own demise?

YEAH, I DIED MONTHS AGO. AROWAN SHOT ME.

The elf adjusted his neck tie again and shook his head. He remembered Arowan as he had known her when they'd first met. She was the sort of person who would not only risk her own life treating a chapel full of dysentery infected patients, but would do so anonymously, taking no credit for it. He had loved her in his own transient way, but the last time their paths had crossed he had met a very different woman. Cold, callous and utterly indifferent to the suffering of others.

"Arowan has changed," the elf said. A shadow fell over his eyes.

I FORGAVE HER FOR KILLING ME. YOSHIMO WOULD HAVE DIED IF SHE HADN'T.

"Yoshimo?" Coran raised an eyebrow. "The name rings a bell but…"

SHE MARRIED HIM.

"Huh. I didn't know she had a husband. He wasn't there when I ran into her in Tethir," Coran mused.

I GUESS THAT MEANS SHE ISN'T MARRIED ANY MORE THEN. CAN'T SAY I'M SURPRISED. REST IN PEACE YOSHIMO, YOU POOR BUGGER.

"She was travelling with Sarevok of all people and Dorn Il-Khan. I don't know what happened to her, she used to be one of the kindest people I knew, but Arowan is a nasty piece of work these days. You wouldn't know she was the same person. After Safana…" he swallowed hard. "After Safana died she raised her up in front of me and had her fight for her like she was just some random corpse. The gods know how, but Arowan has become a necromancer."

There was a very uncomfortable pause. Coran's green eyes narrowed at Bhaal. Even in canine-form he knew that guilty expression when he saw it. The god pawed at the ground, looking like a puppy caught beside a steaming pile of poo.

OOPS.

"What did you do?"

REMEMBER ERIC?

Coran nodded. His acquaintance with Eric had been brief and mostly centred around Freya's determined attempts to have him executed. Now Eric and Freya were occupying the same mind. No wonder Bhaal kept getting headaches. No doubt it would be even worse if Sarevok had stayed dead.

WHEN I WAS ERIC, I MADE A RING FOR MY LOVER. SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO USE IT TO BRING ME BACK FROM THE ABYSS BUT WHEN I GOT THERE, I CHANGED MY MIND AND DECIDED TO STAY. I POURED ALL MY NECROMANTIC KNOWLEDGE INTO THAT RING. I KNOW THAT AROWAN WAS THERE WHEN BUBBLES… ERM… FAILED TO REVIVE ME. SHE MUST HAVE TAKEN IT FROM HER BODY.

Coran's expression darkened. He lowered his head so that his emerald mask pressed into Bhaal's bald, fleshy forehead.

"You need to stop making divine artefacts Bhaal," he snapped, gesturing at the Girdle of Femininity. "No good ever comes of them."

PLENTY OF GOOD CAME OF THAT GIRDLE! YOU'D BE DEAD IF NOT FOR THAT GIRDLE!

"Arsehole."

Bhaal growled defensively. He curled up on one of Coran's newly restored velvet pillows looking sulky. Still, at least he wasn't suckling it.

They kept chatting as Coran readied himself for the wedding. Much to the vexation of the servants, he still insisted on dressing himself. They spoke about what had happened to them since parting ways. Freya's stay in Irenicus's dungeon, Tethir, the Abyss… but both of them avoided mentioning Safana. She was too painful a subject.

* * *

* * *

Saradush was a quiet, dusty city and not at all what Viconia's party had been bracing themselves for. It had the usual buildings, temples and taverns one might expect from any fortified town. It's high stone walls surrounded by a deep moat marked it as more of a military outpost than your average trading stop, but that in itself was not so unusual. What surprised them was that Anomen's messages said that Arowan was headed here, yet all the town's inhabitants were still alive.

"This is definitely Saradush?" Rasaad asked a red-headed lady with a friendly heart-shaped face who greeted them at the gates. "You are quite sure this is the only Saradush in the region?"

The woman, who introduced herself as Melissan, seemed amused by the question.

"Of course, and welcome you are provided your intentions are peaceful," she smiled. "This place welcomes all who seek rest and shelter."

"We must speak urgently with whomever is in charge here," Rasaad said urgently.

"That would be Gromnir Il-Khan," Melissan sighed, "But I would not pin your hopes on gaining an audience with him. Nobody else has been able to. He is unusually intransigent, even for an aspect of Bhaal."

"You mean he is a Bhaalspawn?" growled Sarevok.

Melissan smiled at him. It was a warm, welcoming smile. He didn't trust it. Where he came from people only smiled like that if they were about to stab you or sell you something. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The sun was bearing down relentlessly and his armour was sweltering.

"He is. As are many of those sheltering within these walls," she said. "Think of me as a guardian of sorts. I created a sanctuary in Saradush to gather the remaining Bhaalspawn together. To protect them."

Viconia's jaw dropped in horror and she let out an audible groan. This folly could make Arowan's task of gathering all the Bhaalspawn essence exponentially easier. Surfacers could be so stupid.

"Is something amiss?" Melissan asked sharply.

"I fear that would be a gross understatement," Rasaad told her earnestly. "You are all in terrible danger. We believe that a vast army led by a Bhaalspawn is headed this way."

The woman did not seem perturbed by this. She had the demeanour of a homely halfling housewife. A sort of kindly wholesomeness which made Viconia want to retch. She seemed like the kind of soft-bellied do-gooder the old Arowan might have made friends with.

"You mean Yaga-Shura's forces?" Melissan asked mildly. "Yes, we are aware, and I assure you we are well prepared for a siege. The magical defences are primed and we have a goodly supply of ammunition. Let him come. If we all work together as a team nobody can stand against us!"

Viconia vomited a little in her mouth, though she was only half-listening. Arowan's army was not here but that did not necessarily mean that the Adversary herself wasn't. There were too many hiding places here. Too many shaded alleys and narrow sand-guarded windows. Her enemy could be anywhere, drawing back her bow string, lining up a shot.

"Not Yaga-Shura but Arowan of Candlekeep," Viconia said darkly. "She heads a force of undead large enough to challenge entire regions, never mind one city. She'll spare those of good and neutral alignment, provided this place stops sheltering Bhaalspawn, but everybody else would do well to take a long holiday. As for your Bhaalspawn, you cannot protect them. Their only chance is to scatter and run."

Melissan's jaw tightened.

"Scatter and run?" she echoed, her tone suddenly frosty. "No, no, no. I don't think that's a very good idea at all. The weaker Bhaalspawns' best chance of survival is if they all stick together. Here, under my protection."

"I beg you to do everything in your power to persuade this Gromnir to listen to us!" Rasaad pleaded. "Otherwise I fear you will all be destroyed."

Melissan clicked her fingers and a regiment of guards broke off their patrol, marching toward them. For no apparent reason, her manner had switched from sunny and welcoming, to very hostile indeed.

"I believe you have come to the wrong town after all," she said sharply. "Perhaps you should move on."

There was nothing motherly in her manner now and the guards behind her were pulling down their tin visors and cracking their knuckles menacingly. Yet the party had not come this far through roasting, monster-infested countryside to turn back so easily.

"I am the Servant of all Faiths!" Viconia told her, playing what had often been the party's trump card in previous negotiations. "And I need to see…"

"I said: you have the wrong town."

"You told us this was a sanctuary!" objected Rasaad.

"A sanctuary for Bhaalspawn. Not you."

"But we do have a Bhaalspawn!" Viconia cried triumphantly. Sarevok cursed internally. There was something about this Melissan he didn't quite like. Something about her made him uneasy. As though he had seen her somewhere before, but couldn't place where. Still, a small army to face Arowan with was better than no army at all, and at least they would have that here. Viconia went on before he could stop her, "This man is Sarevok. Sarevok Anchev."

Melissan's eyes flashed in sudden recognition.

"You were supposed to be dead!"

"I came back."

"That's…" a snarl formed over Melissan's soft features. For a moment the woman seemed about to burst with rage. Then she forced herself into a pearly toothed smile. The effort looked painful. "That's wonderful! Bhaalspawn returning from the dead! Truly the gods have heard my prayers! Come in, come in. The Tankard Tree has some rooms spare, its just the other side of the Temple of Waukeen."

The party strode past Melissan, Sarevok still wracking his memory trying to recall where he had seen their hostess before. Suddenly he froze. A memory loomed in his mind of a dark temple and a glinting knife. He recalled how years later mysterious veiled cultists had sought him out in Baldur's Gate spinning lies… persuading him that the only way to achieve his destiny was to slay all the other Bhaalspawn…

"We must get out of here!" Sarevok commanded. "Immediately!"

"What do you mean? We only just talked our way in!" exclaimed Rasaad.

Sarevok steered them forcibly around, fully intending to bolt for it, to fight his way out if necessary, but to his horror Melissan had gone and the drawbridge was rising. A long, low horn sounded from the battlements of Saradush and a cry rang out across the wall.

"Yaga-Shura has been sighted! The fire giants are coming!"


	6. The World's Ugliest Dog

Baldur's Gate's latest bride and groom, having made it through the stress of the main ceremony, were huddled together in a corner while their friends plied them with congratulations and champaign. Coran smiled over at them. Marriage was not for him, but it was refreshing to see young lovers so happy. He cast his eye over the rest of the assembly and his smile quickly evaporated.

"Oh gods, anybody but him…" Coran muttered under his breath.

Despite feeling like a prize poodle in his silly little ruff, he was still one of the more conservatively dressed peers at the wedding reception. The Grand Dukes had rented the ground floor of their official residence for the occasion. Apparently hosting these events was paying for the renovations made necessary by the Hero of Baldur's Gate's brief tenancy.

The place was well on its way to being restored to its former glory. That poor, abused red carpet, sullied by a hundred trails of muddy boot prints had been torn up and a new one installed. The scratched and faded gold filigree had been replaced by far more tasteful silver.

Unfortunately, the Grand Dukes had better taste in décor than in musicians.

WHO IS IT? URGH FUCKING HELL. ELDOTH.

Bhaal had poked his nose out of Coran's bag. If the elf had not felt ridiculous in his outfit already, he was also sporting a duck egg blue satchel. It was the dandiest item of its type he had been able to acquire but there was no getting around the fact that it was, in essence, a handbag. What was the alternative? Put the skinless mini-wolf on a leash and walk him in openly?

Eldoth was preening about on the stage with a lute, trying his darndest to upstage the happy couple. He caught Coran's eye and cut his song short with a lick of his lips.

"Coran!" he beamed, his smile failing to reach his snakelike eyes. "You dog-shagging fairy maggot! I see they didn't send you to an asylum after all. Duke Silvershield will be disappointed. How are you _feeling?"_

He was staring pointedly at Coran's necktie. Suddenly the elf felt painfully visible, wondering how many other people the gossip had spread to. Clearly his servants had not been discrete, though in fairness they had only been with him a short time and had little reason to feel any special loyalty.

"Drop dead Eldoth," he managed lamely.

"Never mind, I have a song tonight that I feel certain will cheer you up," the bard smirked. He paused before returning to the stage to add, "By the way, I hear you've been asking around about Skie. Keen to take Freya's place up her skirts are you? Take it from me, the little tart isn't worth the bother. I've met alligators who could give better head… is your bag _growling?"_

"Excuse me," said Coran. He managed a curt bow which was little more than a jerk of his head and wedged his way into conversation with the first gentlewoman who'd make eye contact with him. For a common bard like Eldoth to interrupt a peer's conversation without being spoken to first would be unacceptable in society like this, and the bard knew it. Reluctantly Eldoth let it drop and slunk back to the stage.

PSST? CORAN? CORAN!

"What?" the elf muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

ANY CHANCE YOU COULD SLIP ME A RIB OR TWO FROM THAT BUFFET BAR? IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I HAD ANY REAL FOOD…

"What in the hells are you doing?" Coran whispered frantically. "Get your head back in the bag!"

He shoved Bhaal down into the depths of the satchel with unnecessary roughness, but not before the lady he was talking to spotted the shine of a cold, wet nose. She reached her hand beneath the satchel's floppy lid to pet Bhaal. Fortunately the shadow it cast prevented her from getting too good a look.

"Oh you've got yourself a puppy, how precious! I absolutely adore… urrgh!"

The noblewoman flinched her hand away from Bhaal's fleshless bald head. Fearing that her reaction had blown her chances with Coran's money, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to pet Bhaal, who leaned into her caress and closed his eyes contentedly.

"How unusual! A furless dog!" she trilled, with transparently false enthusiasm. "I've heard of these. Do you have allergies?"

Coran blinked.

"Erm… allergies! Yes! Dog fur just knocks me out for hours. Can't deal with it at all. Had to get his fur taken out. Makes him look a bit mangy but can't be helped!"

"You mean it wasn't born like that? You actually made it like that on purpose?" The lady was looking at him now with undisguised revulsion. No amount of wealth was worth being married to someone so sadistic that they would pluck a puppy.

"No! That's not what I meant!" the elf backtracked hastily.

With an outraged humph, she gathered her pleated skirts and bustled away with her nose in the air. A moment later she joined her friends and they all glared at him, the very picture of candy-coloured frilly indignation, they looked like an enraged sweet box. Coran was too distracted to care, for Eldoth had begun his song.

" _I'll tattle a tale of a werewolf and crew,_

_Who we once hailed as heroes before we all knew,_

_Of the murderous traits of that fat evil witch,_

_For this is the tale of the Baldur's Gate Bitch!"_

Bhaal's head popped out of the satchel again like a grotesque Jack-in-a-Box.

SAY WHAT NOW?

Coran screwed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sound of the wedding party, who were already clapping along.

" _She started a war and she displaced a lot,_

_Of refugees and then left the city to rot,_

_Incompetent warrior and whore second rate,_

_The so-called "Hero" of Baldur's Gate!"_

"Sing along folks, you know the words!" prompted Eldoth happily.

CORAN?

"It's ok, I'm here buddy," the elf murmured, patting the side of the satchel comfortingly as the room erupted into an energetic singalong.

" _Freya-oh, Freya oh!_

_Your tyranny left us in fear!_

_Who cut your throat,_

_And made you a coat?_

_I'm gunna buy him a beer!_

_._

_Freya-oh, Freya oh!_

_Tyrant incompetent half-male._

_Who ripped off your fur,_

_I salute the good sir._

_I'm gunna buy him an ale!_

It went on for quite a long time accusing the dead hero of, amongst other things, wife murder, eating babies at full moon and starting a plague of dysentery. Bhaal said nothing, but Coran could feel the satchel quivering by his side. He wrapped both arms around it protectively, hoping that nobody noticed him hugging a handbag. If Eldoth was to be believed, there were some in the room who already considered him unstable.

Eldoth merrily strummed the last few bars of his hit composition and smiled at Coran nastily.

"You ok mate?" the elf whispered to his satchel.

Bhaal whimpered.

"Come on, buck up. It's only Eldoth!" he said bracingly, but he knew that the bard's song wasn't really the problem. It was that the people of Baldur's Gate were so heartily swallowing his lies. The only ones who were not singing along were himself and one of the Flaming Fist Guards.

Coran realised with a jolt of recognition that it was Captain Corwin. He hadn't spotted her immediately with her head covered by a helmet but he recognised her epaulettes and her eyes. Compared to the other guards she looked slumped, as though bent over by some great weight.

HEY CORAN? I COULD _REALLY_ GO FOR SOME COMFORT EATING ROUND ABOUT NOW.

Coran sighed and diverted to the buffet table, where he slipped a few ribs and pastries into his bag as discretely as he could. Alas, it was not possible to be discrete enough and his cheeks blazed with embarrassment, knowing how it must look that the wealthiest man in the city was stealing from the bride's spread.

Indeed, one of the servants was already picking his way toward him. Like most of the older Ducal Palace staff, Coran recognized him by sight, for he had made many visits to the place in his thieving days. It was clear from the way this man's nostrils were flaring that he remembered Coran too.

"Pardon Sir, would you like me to pack you a doggy bag?" he asked, with passive aggressive loudness. "Rather than dirtying your own…" He wrinkled his nose at the cheap canvas satchel. Apparently in his eyes the quality was far too inferior for it to qualify as a bag. "Carrying implement?"

He lifted the lid of the satchel between pinched fingers. It was as though he were trying to avoid touching any more of the fabric than was absolutely necessary. Before Coran realised what he was doing, the lid was lifted, and Bhaal's fleshless chihuahua face was poking out of the bag for all to see.

Forgetting his formal persona, the servant yelped in horror and jumped back.

"What in blazers is that?" he hollered, dropping his faux-posh accent and slipping into the back alley common that must be his real voice.

Coran looked about him mutely and readied himself to run for it. Everybody was staring at them. Bhaal waved a paw awkwardly. Some of the ladies hitched their satin skirts away from Bhaal, as if even from this distance he might soil them. There was a horrified murmuring.

"Good gracious!" a young man Coran had once been introduced to as Lord Roenall gasped. He moved his wine glass away from it in a gesture of contempt. "That is…"

"Fabulous!"

Coran turned his green eyes upon a man bursting out of the throng, who immediately introduced himself as Sir William Thorpe. He was wearing the most astonishing pantaloons the elf had ever seen, even amongst the preening menagerie that made up the upper class of Baldur's Gate. They were like molten silver, unnaturally figure hugging and left not so much as a hair's detail to the imagination.

He seized Bhaal from the behind and held the disgruntled god aloft to the gawping nobles.

"I hereby proclaim the discovery of the World's Ugliest Dog! What fun!"

A few of the assembly began to clap uncertainly. Then, not to be outdone by a lowborn riffraff like Coran, Lord Roenall declared;

"Upon my word, my wife Nalia has one uglier! We should have a contest!"

"No fine Sir, you misunderstand," guffawed a squat count sporting a handlebar moustache. "When she said she ran away from an ugly dog, she was referring to your good self!"

This brought forth a round of laughter and clapping. Lord Roenall slunk back into the throng looking sulky, but the idea had taken on a life of its own and suddenly Bhaal found himself in vogue. Fashionable women were lining up to caress his fleshless face, feed him titbits and ask Coran in low voices how he managed to prevent his purse-puppy from _'dirtying the bag.'_

I'VE STILL GOT IT!

Bhaal boasted smugly when the excitement died down and they finally caught a moment to themselves.

"Bet you anything, next time this lot have a get together, every one of them will have a grotty little dog in their purses," Coran muttered, when the excitement finally died down and he was able to retreat to the safety of a corner chair. Bhaal, full and contented for the time being, snickered to himself.

At that moment, a servant announced the Grand Duke Silvershield and his daughter, Lady Skie. There was a sudden hush. Smiling, and still leaning on her father's arm, Skie descended the stairs dressed in a gown of periwinkle blue. Her hair was looped in an elegant dark bun and her eyes glittered with artfully applied makeup. The look was accented by a golden fur coat, that shimmered in the light of the candles lining the grand staircase.

"Shut up!" Coran whispered to Bhaal who had gone rigid and was snarling menacingly.

THAT THING ISN'T SKIE.

The tiny god was not troubling to keep his voice down and people nearby were looking around, assuming that it was Coran who had spoken. Among them was Captain Corwin. As he tried to wrestle Bhaal deeper into the satchel he caught murmurs from the people around him. Whispers suggesting that he was insane, that he had tried to kill himself, and that he ought to be locked up for his own safety.

He was just about to make a hasty exit when Bhaal plunged his fangs into his hand. The elf yelped in shock and dropped the bag.

"No, no, NO!" Coran yelled, as the skinless dog streaked across the floor in a fit of blind rage, yipping its tiny head off.

"What the devil?" thundered Duke Silvershield.

Several guests leaped onto their chairs, shrieking, while the servants made half-hearted attempts to catch the little beast. Bhaal darted between their legs, nipping ankles where necessary, before tearing up the staircase to where Skie stood staring at it.

What Bhaal had intended to do when he reached her, Coran never found out, because the Duke booted the little dog with all his strength. He arched gracefully through the air, landing in the middle of the ballroom, as people scrambled to get out of the way.

Bhaal lay perfectly still for a moment, and then popped out of existence. Suddenly all eyes were on Coran.

"Demon dog!" somebody screamed, and there was pandemonium.

It was fortunate for Coran that his brief life of luxury had not had time to dull his skills. He pelted, not toward the door where the guards stood, but to the nearest window and smashed it with a chair. The bride screamed and half a dozen Fist officers bore down on him, drawing their swords.

"I'll cut off his escape!" Corwin barked, sprinting outside of the building.

Coran leaped through the window and landed catlike on his burglar's feet. His heart was pounding. He knew that he was in serious trouble. Anyone who hadn't thought him insane before would certainly be convinced now. If he didn't want to spend the rest of his life in a padded cell, he had better make his getaway quickly.

Corwin was fast approaching. He drew his knife in preparation for a scuffle but, to his astonishment, she handed him the reigns of one of the noblemen's horses. It was a palomino mare. Not the fastest steed by any means but biddable to an amateur rider.

"Get out of here!" she hissed.

Coran frowned, puzzled. Corwin had always hated him, but if this was a trick he could not figure it out.

"You're right," she said. "I don't know how you knew, but whoever that girl is on the Duke's arm, she definitely isn't the real Skie. It's obvious to anyone who ever met her, but His Grace is in denial. I'm letting you go on the condition that you find Soultaker. This imposter is a danger to the whole city. Bringing the real Skie back is the only way to convince the Duke of that."

Coran swung himself up into the saddle. The guards pouring through the window were nearly upon them now.

"Come with me!" he offered. Corwin shook her head.

"I have to stay," she said. "My daughter…"

Coran nodded. As a parting gift, he kicked Corwin hard in the chest from his saddle, to make it seem as though she had tried to stop him. Then he turned and rode away, not pausing until he was miles south of the city in rough countryside.

He had nothing on him but a knife, some gold and the girdle in its satchel. Dusk was approaching, bringing with it a thick damp fog. Feeling more alive than he had in over a year, Coran put on the Girdle of Femininity as an instant disguise, and tweaked the horse's reins in the direction of Beregost.

The last known location of the Soultaker dagger was Athkatla, and he would need supplies for the journey.

* * *

* * *

"So…" Sir Ryan Trawl twirled his luxuriant facial hair about his fingers. "So."

There was an extremely awkward pause. Sir Ryan, Sir Keldorn and Prelate Wessalen were all staring at one man and they weren't the only ones. Anomen's audience with them had been granted, on sufferance, in the very hall where he had failed his test.

The place brought back painful memories, not only of his disappointment, but of his own behaviour afterward. His public meltdown, like a spoiled child. From every banner the accusing eye of Helm glared down at him.

Once he had imagined returning in triumph as the Servant of all Faith's champion, proving that he was too good for the Order by besting them all. Instead he was making his case on his knees like a ragged beggar, unshaven and exhausted.

As he explained to them all that had transpired since his ill-considered decision to treat Arowan with numbing potions, the packed hall listened in rapt silence.

"For what it is worth," Prelate Wessalen sighed, "I might have administered the potion to the young ranger too, were I in your position. You made the best judgement you could with limited options and it went wrong."

"Happens to the best of us," acknowledged Keldorn, though Anomen felt sure that he would never have made the same mistake himself.

"In truth, I am more concerned with your role in the destruction of Urst-Natha," the Prelate went on. "In light of your heroic deeds since leaving the Order: particularly with regards to Trademeet and the Umar Hills many here believed that you ought to be reinstated. Sir Keldorn has particularly recommended it."

"Hmmph!" bristled Sir Ryan, who had clearly neither forgiven nor forgotten the things Anomen had called him upon failing his test.

Anomen looked down at the ground.

"Not everyone agreed, but in light of your recent actions I am forced to call a second judgement. As it happens, I was already aware of some of what you have told me. Queen Ellesime sent a dispatch some months ago informing us of your part in defeating the Exile Irenicus and saving Suldanessellar."

A murmur of approval rippled around the hall, to Sir Ryan's obvious disgruntlement.

"But before I can make a final decision about your future, I have to know. Is it true? Were you ultimately responsible for the annihilation of an entire drow settlement?"

Anomen felt his heart bow with grief. He had not known, had chosen to ignore Sir Keldorn's hints, that he was so close to reinstatement. Yet after everything he had done he could not lie before Torm, Tyr and Helm. He had force-fed Arowan the numbing potions which made him responsible for the destruction she had wrought since. In some ways even more so than the fallen ranger herself.

Anomen bowed his head and confessed.

"Yes Sir."

It was done; his second chance at knighthood gone. Yet this was of trivial import compared to making sure that they understood and that the Order mobilised to oppose Arowan's undead army.

"I knew it!" Keldorn thundered. Then, to Anomen's utter bemusement, his face split into a fatherly smile and he began to clap his broad palms together. "Well done boy!"

The entire hall burst into spontaneous applause. Anomen's eyes searched from left to right, taking in the cheering knights and squires, his beard twitching like a deranged vagrant. When he looked back to the three old knights before him, even Sir Ryan nodded to him with grudging respect.

"Arise, Sir Anomen!"

Prelate Wessalen placed the flat of his sword against the startled young man's shoulder.

"Wh- what did you say?"

"Anomen Delryn, you have proven yourself worthy. I dub thee Sir Anomen, Knight of the Order of the Radiant Heart."

Anomen blinked at him, dumbfounded.

"Arise and give your oath," prompted Sir Keldorn with a small cough.

The new knight felt like a rabbit beneath the wheels of a grain cart. Thoughts were racing through his mind. Firstly that this might be some sort of cruel jape, but he knew the Order would never taint their rituals with such frivolity. Then that he did not deserve to be knighted, _particularly_ not for his part in the destruction of Urst-Natha.

Then again, if this is what they unanimously handed out knighthoods for, then perhaps he was exactly where he belonged. More importantly he could do far more to undo the evil he had set loose from inside the Order than outside it. He rose unsteadily to his feet and recited the words he had spent years practising.

"Under witness of all gathered, I swear to uphold the honour of the Order for as long as I shall live. I pledge my dying breath to the service of good. In Helm's name, I thank thee, Prelate. I swear that I shall never falter 'neath the banner of Helm."

The next hour passed in a surreal blur. Gauntleted hands kept grasping his own to shake it and, at length, he found himself face to face once more with the Prelate.

"Sir Anomen I congratulate you. I welcome you and honour your knighthood," the Prelate began. "And in truth, the Order has desperate need of a man of unconventional methods such as yourself."

"What do you mean Sir?" he asked warily.

"The Adversary, Arowan, is a unique threat to the whole of Toril. Opposed by all gods," the Prelate began, laying a peculiar emphasis on the word 'all.' "The circumstances have forced us to make some rather strange alliances. Sir Keldorn is to lead the force against Arowan's undead, but he is…"

The Prelate paused and rubbed his chin uncomfortably.

"Keldorn is wholly inflexible in his morality," said the Prelate. "It is his strength and his weakness. I, however, have been in talks with representatives of many sects with whom the Order would not normally associate. In particular Alorgoth of the Dark Moon. I want you to go with Sir Keldorn as an advisor, in case it becomes necessary to make… strategic compromises."

Anomen nodded glumly. He had been readmitted into the Order in part, then, on the basis of his own moral ambiguity. It was hardly the knighthood he had dreamed of but then, it seemed, the line between dreams and nightmares was often blurred these days.

"Why send Sir Keldorn if that is the case?" he asked.

"Keldorn is familiar with Arowan in a way that the others are not," replied Prelate Wessalen. "As well as the Servant of all Faiths and her followers. That insight may give us some advantage. He is also the best field commander we have. Besides he has not had a significant mission in a long time and he can be… difficult… when he gets bored." The Prelate allowed himself a small smile. "When he doesn't have enough to do, Sir Keldorn takes on pet projects. If he's not trying to 'engage the youth wing' of the Order in moralizing amateur dramatics, he's obsessing over archaeological finds in those ancient temples of Amaunator you lot dug up. Truth be told I'll be glad to get him out of the building. Frankly, he is driving everyone nuts."

Despite himself, Anomen permitted himself a small smile.

"Now go to the armoury and get fitted boy. You leave in three days, once we've had time to get provisions and recall some of our men from expeditions. And for Helm's sake, use the time to visit a barber."

"Yes Sir," said Sir Anomen.


	7. Memory

Rasaad and Viconia had seen war before. Sarevok hadn't, which was ironic since he had come very close to starting one himself. He had been in countless party battles, but that wasn't the same.

Close-packed squares of soldiers were marching on Saradush from the north, and not just any soldiers. These were fire giants, each standing at twelve feet tall. Their flaming red hair and matching yellow and orange clothes made it seem as though a wild fire was approaching. Sarevok's golden eyes flickered between them doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic.

"Five by ten giants per division, times seven divisions per row going back four rows equals…"

"Certain death," finished Viconia flatly. "We must find a way out of here."

"Agreed," said Rasaad, standing on the battlements and casting his dark eyes across the city garrison. It was a respectable manning for the size of the city, but no match for the vast force bearing down on them. "Though if we could persuade Gromnir to fight with the garrison, the defenders may stand a… no, forget I spoke… they have catapults."

Yaga-Shura's forces had stopped dead in a ring cutting off any possibility of escape. Coming up behind them rattled catapults, each with a supply of pitch-covered shots ready to be set on fire, pulled along by teams of eight oxen. It would take the giants some time to remove them from their carts and set them up but when they did death and destruction would rain from the air.

"There is no point standing here and watching them," said Sarevok abruptly. "Servant of all Faiths, you must make a decision. Do we try to reach this Gromnir Il-Khan or do we search for an escape route?"

* * *

* * *

Both options turned out to be non-starters. Nobody; not the guards on the walls, the drunks in the tavern, nor the clerics frantically preparing the temple for an influx of casualties, had the least interest in talking to them. The party resorted to searching manually through the empty streets until they were too fatigued to go on.

"Where are all the rivvin?" snapped Viconia.

"Hiding, I expect, like the miserable sheep they are," replied Sarevok contemptuously.

"As I understand it, sheep are not well known for hiding," said Rasaad. "Their size and bulk make concealment challenging. In wild flocks the rams defend the females with considerable aggression, in fact…"

He trailed off. Both drow and Bhaalspawn were giving him _The Look_.

"I am surprised that the attack has not begun yet," he said. "I do not think it could have taken the giants this long to assemble their catapults."

Indeed, it was getting late in the day. The sky had turned as orange as the sands around the city and would soon slip below the level of the battlements, plunging the city into a gloom Viconia found most welcome after the glare of the day.

"We should monitor the situation," nodded Sarevok, and once again they climbed the stone steps up to the city's outer walls.

The giants had indeed assembled their catapults, but they seemed in no great hurry to begin their assault. They were unfurling crimson marquees comfortably out of range of the defenders' arrows and a few had lit large fires over which they were roasting the cart oxen. Clearly they hadn't the least intention of moving on any time soon.

"They mean to starve the city out?" Rasaad said hopefully. "Then we have plenty of time. Melissan said the city is well stocked in preparation for a siege."

"Perhaps," replied Sarevok darkly. He would not take Melissan's word on that, or anything else. "But their forces are easily large enough to overwhelm Saradush's defences. Why play the long game? Unless…"

"Unless what?" snapped Viconia.

Sarevok motioned them down from the wall and toward the inn. They found a spot in a quiet corner of the Tankard Tree. It was a rundown establishment with mildew on the windows, and it was easy to see why this was the place which still had rooms to spare. Holding his ale in a death grip, the Bhaalspawn leant across the termite-ridden table so that only they could hear him. A single candle in the centre of it flickered with his breath.

"One Bhaalspawn left standing taking control of our father's essence. Arowan may have come up with that independently," he said, "But she is by no means the first to have that idea."

"We know of your past crimes, Sarevok!" Rasaad replied sourly.

"Is it a crime to seek to unleash your full potential?" Viconia asked, with just a hint of a purr.

A muscle twitched in Rasaad's jaw. Ever since she had admitted to treating him harshly, she had been slipping into his bedroll sometimes at night, kissing his neck and stroking the muscles on his arms until his body compelled him to respond no matter how tired he was. Yet he would wake up to find her gone, and by day her behaviour gave no clue that anything had passed between them. It was unclear precisely where they stood, and his insecurity was not helped by her obvious admiration of the other bald warrior in the group.

"You could still do it Sarevok, if you outlive Arowan," she pointed out. "Ascension may yet be yours for the taking. Had you thought of that?"

Sarevok stared across the table. An unnerving feature of his pupiless glowing eyes was that it was impossible to be certain exactly what it was he was looking at.

"I have thought of little else," he answered truthfully. Viconia smiled, and Rasaad found himself gripped by the urge to ensure that Sarevok _didn't_ outlive Arowan.

"So you mean to return to destroying your brothers and sisters? Just like Arowan and Yaga-Shura?" he asked, disgusted.

"No."

Viconia sat back in her chair, which creaked alarmingly. Her arms were folded and she looked deeply disappointed.

"I was set upon that path intentionally by the Cult of Bhaal, of whom Melissan is a leader. I recognised her just a moment too late. Her hair and name, her clothes and her demeanour have all changed but it is her, I am certain of it. I see now that she has rounded up the other Bhaalspawn ready for a mass slaughter. I doubt that it is a coincidence that Yaga-Shura's troops came into view just as I entered the city. I suspect she suggested the advance in order to trap me in here and prevent us from warning the other Bhaalspawn to run."

"She means to control the last living Bhaalspawn?"

"More likely her aim is to have us all destroy each other and bring back Bhaal himself, just as the cult originally planned," Sarevok said. "I will not assist her in this."

"So why are the giants settling in for a prolonged siege?"

"Perhaps Yaga-Shura is not the only Bhaalspawn with an army at his back. I had one once, so did Freya. Arowan still does. My guess is that there are more. Perhaps Yaga-Shura is conserving his troops for later battles rather than breaking them upon the walls of Saradush."

"That is a disturbing notion."

Rasaad drained his ale. He had taken to drinking pints more often than water in recent weeks, though he did still order the weakest sort on the menu. Viconia noticed the way he was glaring at Sarevok and decided that tonight would be a good night to visit the monk's room. He always fucked harder when he was in a jealous mood.

* * *

* * *

Long after the other two had retired for the night, Sarevok remained alone at a table in the bar, his father's sword leaning on his shin. He knew what they were up to and found himself envying Rasaad the general pleasure of female companionship, though perhaps not Viconia specifically. Being dominated was not something he sought, in the bedroom or any other context.

It had been a very long time indeed since he had been close to a woman. Unless one counted having Freya rip out his gizzards repeatedly in the Abyss as being 'close.'

He missed Tamoko. She had been his anchor. The sole voice of reason when Melissan and her ilk were filling his head with mad dreams. The only one who had stood by him unconditionally, wanting him for him, when to the rest of the world he was but a tool to be manipulated.

His memory of her dark hair and wicked smile was punctuated abruptly by an unwelcome fantasy of Freya's swords flashing and Tamoko's head tumbling down the steps of his father's temple. He had not seen it happen but he had been imagining it since. Yet he did not hate Freya in as passionately vengeful a way as she had hated him for Gorion's murder. He had, after all, sent Tamoko out to die himself.

What a small world that his sister Arowan had taken Tamoko's brother for her own lover. Of course, Arowan and Freya had shared a lover in Coran (albeit in Freya's case only with a feminising girdle). He wondered whether, since they had all come from one being and in theory could merge into one Bhaal again, whether they were predisposed to be drawn to similar sorts of people.

Of all the potential companions in the world, he, Freya and Arowan had all ended up allying themselves with Viconia and Rasaad at different times. Bhaal in different bodies, living different lives. Was it really just by chance that the same faces kept cropping up over and over?

"All the grief we caused each other, sister," Sarevok muttered, staring into the candlelight and thinking of Freya. "When perhaps we were the same person all along."

He shook his head. Merging with Bhaal was an idea that Freya had accepted with surprising ease, but perhaps that was because she'd lacked the brains to appreciate what it would really mean. Sarevok, as an individual, would be gone and he could not accept that even if the prize was godhood. One day perhaps, but not today.

The door to the tavern opened and two guards stumbled in. They were wearing a different uniform to the men on the battlements and seemed to already be drunk.

"That's her there!" grinned one, pointing his finger at a young waitress, who suddenly looked rather frightened. "Real priss that one."

"You're a pretty one ain't ya?" his friend called over to her, pulling off his helmet to reveal a gappy smile.

The waitress ignored them both and busied herself cleaning tables, but the men were not about to give up. They moved menacingly between the rickety chairs, like stalking hyenas, laughing to themselves about nonsense. At the bar, the landlord looked worried, but not worried enough to intervene. He was middle aged and portly with a dicky knee. They were tall and armoured and carried very pointy swords.

As the two men closed in on her in a pincer movement from either side of the pub, there was only one direction for the waitress to escape. Straight ahead toward Sarevok's table. She stopped in fright when she saw his glowing eyes glaring from out of the gloom, then back at the leering guards who were still stalking her.

"Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea?" asked Sarevok. "Stab them, girl, and have done."

"Stab them? Are you mad?" she hissed, pretending to polish Sarevok's table with a grubby cloth. He raised an eyebrow at her. The guard was right, she was very pretty, with dark brown curls and full lips, but the Bhaalspawn had no time for meekness.

"I could teach you if you like," he offered mockingly. "A dagger to the gut, a poisoned dart to the eye…"

"I can't," she whispered. "Please help me!"

"I've no interest in helping those too weak-willed to help themselves. If you lack the stomach to finish them off properly a quick slice in the right place could end their attentions permanently."

"Keep your voice down if you know what's good for you! Those are Gromnir Il-Khan's men!" she whispered. "You'll have the whole barracks on you if you don't watch your step!"

"What's that darling? You want to step into our barracks you say?" sneered one of the guards, coming up behind her and squeezing her bottom.

"Am I supposed to be afraid of _those?_ " laughed Sarevok, loudly enough that the whole inn could hear him. A stunned silence descended. Sarevok may not fear Gromnir's men, but it was very apparent that everybody else did.

The soldiers exchanged a look, then advanced on Sarevok threateningly. One of them hurled a chair to one side as he went, which a group of elves at the next table had to duck to avoid.

"What do you want?" sneered one, a snaggle-toothed half-elf with overgrown fingernails. "Can't you see we're busy with this cute little lass here."

"You're right. I have better things to do than get involved in this," replied Sarevok.

He reached for his ale, with the full intention of resuming his brooding over Tamoko and leaving them to their business, but the soldier picked it up first. Sarevok watched him drain his stolen ale, as the flickering table candle cast dangerous shadows over his jaw.

"Good… glad to see you know your place in this town," chortled his colleague, in a broad northern accent. "We soldiers of Gromnir own this place, and everybody in it."

Sarevok stood up, pushing the table forward as he did so. He was far larger and more imposing than the average human, with strong legs and a broad torso. The snaggle-toothed soldier looked him up and down, but to the demi-god's mild surprise he did not back away.

"'Ere look at this one Ernie," he said softly. "From what I hear, Gromnir himself wouldn't mind a bit of him. Maybe he'll give us a finders' fee."

"What's your name sunshine?" asked the guard with the northern accent.

"Sarevok Anchev."

This name meant nothing to the snaggle-toothed guard but his northern partner burst into peels of laughter. He gripped the edge of the table for support, while Sarevok reached under it at a leisurely pace to retrieve his father's sword.

"Hahaha! Sarevok Anchev back from the grave? Sure you are- and I'm the Bitch of Baldur's Gate!" he guffawed.

"No. Unfortunately you are not, but imagining her head on your shoulders will make cutting it off all the more satisfying," Sarevok said stonily.

"Is that a threaaaarrrrghhh!" the unlucky man screamed as a sudden flash of metal left him short an arm.

"You bastard! You cut off Bert's sword arm!"

The second man had time to draw his sword in self-defence, but when they struck each other he found that he was not strong enough to hold onto it. Sarevok knocked it clear from his hand while barely trying.

"Alright, alright! We'll leave the girl alone!" he wailed. His companion was screaming on the floor and clutching his stump of an arm, in too much pain to speak. Sarevok brought his sword down sharply, and the squeals immediately ceased. The surviving guard cringed away whimpering. "Please don't hurt me! What do you want, gold? Stay back! Stay back! Or the rest of Gromnir's crew will be all over you when they hear about this!"

"Then I had best ensure that they don't," he replied, swinging his sword in an effort to decapitate the man.

Rarely for Sarevok, he fumbled his blow, and the blade fell short of its mark. Instead it embedded itself into the back of his skull. Ernie dropped to the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood jerking and twitching, his eyes rolling back into his head. Sarevok raised his sword again indifferently.

"Wait!" cried the waitress. Sarevok paused. She held out her hand, he assumed to beg for his mercy though that would do the man no good now. Instead she reached for his sword and said, "Can I?"

Sarevok laughed good-humouredly.

"This is not a sword for novices, but I have a spare dagger." He pulled a mean little blade out of a scabbard on his belt. It was a quality knife, but not irreplaceable. Mostly he used it for eating with, though it was forged to kill. "Quick thrust down and pull it straight out. Don't aim for the heart first time there's a breast plate in the way. Try the stomach or the neck."

It took her a few goes before the man stopped moving, but she got to her feet exhilarated, her apron covered in blood.

"I've never done that before!"

"I'd never have guessed," he lied. "How do you feel?"

"Powerful."

Sarevok half-smiled and nodded in recollection. Unlike the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn who had been memory wiped by Gorion, he could remember growing up in Bhaal's temple. Like all the Bhaalspawn he had been well treated (even the cruellest of the cult's priestesses knew that their revived god would remember how they behaved toward him in mortal form) yet the impending threat of the altar had always been there.

They had never told him in so many words what the Bhaalspawn were for, but there were murals on the walls of lakes becoming droplets and droplets becoming lakes. One in particular stuck in his mind of their father being reborn from a sea of blood. The knowing looks the priestesses gave him and his siblings sometimes and the veiled references to it 'almost being time.' A boy far less intelligent than young Sarevok could have seen where it was all going.

Yet he had been powerless to do anything about it. The first time he took a life himself, as a young man in Baldur's Gate, the reversal of fortune was a feeling without comparison. With a sword in his hand _he_ held the power and he knew with a terrible certainty that he would never relinquish it again. Watching the waitress's face now he had a feeling that her days of hiding from lechers and pouring other people's drinks were over.

"Thank you Sarevok Anchev," she said, eyes shining as she handed him back his dagger. It reminded him so painfully of the way Tamoko used to look at him that she might as well have stabbed him too.

"Keep it," he replied, struck by a wave of generosity that surprised even him. "And think of me when you use it. You… remind me of someone I used to know."

Leaving the bodies where they lay, on the assumption that somebody else would deal with them, he retired upstairs to his room. It was the one right next to Rasaad and Viconia's and their bed was thumping against the wall in an irritating way.

Viconia liked to wait until she thought Sarevok asleep before slipping into the monk's bedroll, imagining that she was being discrete. The warrior wished that he could appreciate the courtesy, but once she got there her gasps tended to wake him up whether he had started out conscious or not.

On occasion he had been tempted to walk over to them and ask Rasaad if he needed help, just to bait him. Only that sort of teasing came with a risk that the monk might do something that forced him to kill him and then the alliance would fall apart.

While they were trapped in this death pit of Saradush, he might as well try to find himself a woman. It had been far too long and besides, he needed to drive Tamoko's ghost from his head.

* * *

* * *

In another inn, far away in Beregost, a fetching auburn-haired lady with pronounced curves and striking green eyes was making her way up to her own room. She might have fit Sarevok's spec rather nicely, were it not for the fact that she was just Coran in disguise.

He was carrying two steak and ale pies upstairs and two jugs of ale, ignoring the barman's knowing grin, and keeping a careful eye out in case Baldur's Gate had dispatched someone to bring him back.

Coran could not shake the feeling that he was being followed. It was like having a mouse in the house. Every so often he'd think he'd seen a flicker in the corner of his eye, but when he looked directly at the spot it was gone.

As soon as he got into his room, he bolted the door closed then checked carefully under the bed and behind the curtains. As a precaution, he also bolted the window.

"Damn me for an old worrier. I never used to be this jumpy," he berated himself, and unclasped the girdle, before gashing his least sliced finger and dropping blood onto it. "Bhaal. Hey Bhaal! You can come out!"

The little dog materialized on the bed snapping and gnashing his fangs wildly. He seized the nearest pillow and shook it viciously sending feathers bursting around the room.

WHERE'D THEY GO? WHERE'D THEY GO?

"Calm down!" Coran laughed. "We're in Beregost. Look, I got you a pie and some…

BEER!

Bhaal buried his little face so deep into the tankard and stayed there for so long that Coran started to think he would drown himself and need to be summoned again. But then his muzzle emerged with a ring of foam about it that made him look a bit like a poodle.

Bhaal jumped back onto the bed, slurping the foam from his chops.

WHAT IN THE HELLS ARE WE DOING IN BEREGOST?

"We're going to Athkatla. That's where Irenicus took you before you… erm…"

YOU CAN SAY IT. BEFORE I DIED. FOR FUCK'S SAKE CORAN I'M THE LORD OF MURDER, IT'S NOT LIKE YOU NEED TO BE SQUEAMISH ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING AROUND ME.

"Then we'll start our hunt for the Soultaker dagger in Athkatla!"

WE?

A hopeful expression had appeared in Bhaal's bulging, lidless eyes.

"Of course we, arsehole." Coran said with a watery smile. He lay on the bed at the little dog's level. "Don't you remember what I told you in Baldur's Gate before you exiled me and Saffy? You're my best mate and I love you."

Bhaal gave his nose a nervous lick.

I WASN'T SURE WHETHER WE STILL WERE BEST MATES NOW THAT…

"Now that you're scores of other people as well as being Freya?"

Bhaal nodded.

"I wasn't sure either at first, but we are." Coran shrugged helplessly and fluffed up a pillow so that Bhaal could sleep beside him. He'd have vanished back to the Abyss by morning, but he was here now. "I don't know whether that's how it should be, but that's how it is."

He closed his eyes and, comforted by the sound of Bhaal shuffling on his pillow, he fell asleep.

That night he dreamed that he heard someone trying to open the window. In haste he lit his bedside lantern and picked up a bow purchased just that day in town. It wasn't as good as his regular bow but there had been no time to stop by his mansion and pick it up. With shaking hands he unlatched the window, aiming the bow around wildly at his would-be assailant, but he found nothing except a cool night breeze.

He closed the window, bolted it again and returned to his bed. Only this time he left the lantern burning and slept with his weapons close to hand.


	8. The Hero of Saradush

Rasaad woke to an empty bed, Viconia's fingernail marks on his back and his window exploding inward. With a yell he rolled onto the floor, but the blast was far enough away that the shattered pane did not spray him with glass shards. His ears rang from the explosion and there was a burning smell coming from outside, but his first thought was to find Viconia.

Without bothering to dress himself, he wrenched his door open to see Sarevok emerge similarly unclothed from the neighbouring room.

"They waited until the middle of the night to launch the catapults?" Rasaad raged.

"Thus striking terror into the hearts of the defenders. A sound strategy," mused Sarevok. "How will they even sleep at night knowing that a ball of fiery death could descend on them in their beds?"

Rasaad was spared having to answer this by Viconia emerging from her own room. She was unharmed but had come out a little later, having taken the time to dress and arm herself. Her red eyes widened at the sight of the two of them together, momentarily distracted from the chaos outside.

"We must do what we can to assist these people!" Rasaad panted.

"We must find a way out of this death trap!" Sarevok corrected.

"Or the two of you could just stay like that for a moment?" Viconia suggested dreamily, winding her silver hair around her finger.

Sarevok turned around slowly and she stared, unabashed, smiling openly at his hips in a way that made him feel rather emasculated.

"What is it you want drow?"

She fluttered her eyelashes and prowled over to them, draping an arm over each of the naked men, though she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. Outside the screams and yells of the city's populace were punctuated by hollering as the guards tried to organise a bucket chain. A stranger burst from one of the rooms and pelted past them, paying no attention to the party.

"I miss the customs of my homeland, like the breaking in of new pleasure slaves. The largest and strongest were the hardest to break but they were also the most rewarding. Sarevok, I find your great size _intriguing._ "

Sarevok was unmoved. The drow's games might wind up Rasaad, but they were not going to work on him.

"Were you to break me, Viconia, you might find nothing but the chill emptiness of the grave within."

With a disgusted noise, Rasaad brushed Viconia off and returned to his room to gather his gear with an unnecessary amount of slamming and crashing.

"That does not repulse me as you might imagine," she smiled, tracing a hand over Sarevok's chest. "We drow are ever eager to broaden our… experiences."

Sarevok winced and backed away.

"I orchestrated a war to slaughter thousands. I have felt the cold embrace of death and witnessed the horrors of the Abyss. But you, Viconia… you scare me. If it is the touch of the grave you seek perhaps you should turn to my sister. I am sure Arowan could oblige you."

Viconia flinched at the unexpected mention of the Adversary's name, then spat at Sarevok, furious that he had brought her up.

"Cowards everywhere I turn! If you find your courage Sarevok, seek me out!" she hissed.

Rasaad came back out of his room, this time with clothes and rammed past both of them, knocking Sarevok into the wall. The Bhaalspawn reached for his sword reflexively before remembering that he still wasn't dressed, which was perhaps fortunate for Rasaad.

"Where are you going?" Viconia purred.

"To Gromnir Il-Khan!" the monk thundered in reply.

"How? Everyone says the same thing, there's no way into his keep!"

"This Il-Khan eats, drinks and defecates like the rest of us I presume?" Rasaad blazed, his vast arms shaking with rage. "If there is a way out then there is a way in!"

"You want me to crawl through the sewers?" Viconia wrinkled her nose.

"If you are too superior for it, then by all means stay here with Sarevok!" he bellowed, slamming his fist into the wall. It cracked the wood and rained plaster from the ceiling. "I am sure the two of you can find plenty of ways to entertain yourselves!"

Without waiting for an answer, he strode away along the landing. He had just reached the stairs and was about to storm down them when Viconia called after him:

"I have two words for you male: Durlag's Tower!"

Rasaad stopped short and his hand bunched in fury. His humiliation over the incident she was referring to had made him sick to his stomach even _before_ Arowan's transformation into a genocidal necromancer. These days just thinking about the intimacy they had once shared made his skin crawl.

"It was no secret that _you_ desired two women at the same time!" Viconia reminded him defiantly, ignoring the fact that he had been under a spell at the time and it was not his fault. "Yet when I have the same inclinations as you, then it is a problem? How dare you hold me to a higher standard than yourself, insolent hypocrite man!"

Rasaad crossed the hall in two strides to Viconia and pinned her up and against the wall. Viconia's eyes burned and she wrapped her legs about him. She liked Rasaad like this; passionate and dominant, though her preferences were so frowned upon by her own kind that she rarely admitted is even to herself. Winding up Rasaad was her primary motivation for flirting so openly with Sarevok and it worked so well... Her hand snaked down toward his cock but he grabbed her wrist before she could reach him.

"Very well! After this, we are even for Durlag's Tower!" he snarled, dark eyes blazing beneath tattoos that coiled across his scalp and face. "No more games, Viconia, I must know where we stand! Are we together or are we not? Choose!"

" _Am I still in hell?"_ Sarevok thought to himself as he buckled his armour. _"Which is worse, daily disembowelment by a skinless ghost or having to suffer through this pair's tiresome melodrama day in, day out?"_

"Rasaad yn Bashir, you are not as other men," Viconia sighed, burying her face into his strong neck.

Sarevok winced. _"Why did I not have the sense to just stay dead?"_

"Very well. I surrender," moaned Viconia. "It seems I am helpless before you. Come now and claim your victory."

Sarevok's head jerked up in alarm and he burst out of his room, ready to leave. Rasaad and Viconia jumped apart, both of them having momentarily forgotten that he was there.

"I think not. Waiting for you two to finish disturbs enough of my nights, I will not have it disrupt my days also," he told them dryly. "Your suggestion that we wade through the sewers disgusts me far less than listening to any more of this."

Rasaad and Viconia had no answer, but they followed him outside into the frantic activity of the streets below. From what they could gather a house had been flattened two blocks away and another was on fire, though the giants had only launched their catapult once. It seemed that Sarevok was correct, Yaga-Shura's men were aiming to frighten the populace rather than start their assault in earnest.

However, the first sewer hatch they came to was locked. This was not so unusual but after an hour of trawling the torchlit streets in search of manholes they were forced to the conclusion that they had all been sealed off.

"Gromnir's men must have blocked them off specifically to stop people doing this!" Viconia panted in frustration as the three of them wrestled with a large iron circle welded into the cobbles. "How do we get to him now?"

"I fear that may be the least of our problems," Sarevok said, massaging his temples.

"What do you mean?" asked Rasaad.

"When I was a young man, learning my father's business in Baldur's Gate we had a particularly harsh winter one year," he replied, "Auril must have been offended for sections of the sewage network iced over for several days. Living in a city without access to a functioning plumbing network is an experience I shall never forget. That was only three days. Now picture, if you will, what Saradush is going to look like in three _weeks._ "

A muscle twitched beside Rasaad's eye, and Viconia wrinkled her nose.

"We must get out of here," she said firmly. "There is a dock on the far side of the city. Perhaps we could swim away, or take a boat?"

Only this too turned out to be a dead ended plan. The fire giants had boats of their own and were cheerfully blocking off the water along with every other escape route. The sound of their jolly shanties could just be detected over the screeching of gulls.

The despondent party headed back into town, having run out of ideas. Near the Tankard Tree, they came across a huddle of elves being tormented by more of Gromnir's men.

"Please, just leave us alone!" one of the men wailed, provoking a chorus of mimicry and laughter.

Sarevok barely noticed, but Rasaad was already striding over to them.

"Is there a problem here, my friends?" he asked in a voice of studied patience, ever striving to be the monastic peacekeeper.

"No problem at all," sneered one of the soldiers. "These fine folks ran out of gold and got themselves kicked out of their lodgings. We were just negotiating the… price… for alternative accommodation."

"He means the barracks cells! They want to take us as slaves!" the elf blustered hysterically. "But we won't go!"

"Then you have your answer," Rasaad told the guards. "Perhaps it would be best if you dispersed now."

"Or perhaps we should take you three back instead!" the guard snickered, but one of his fellows, a younger lad, was pulling on his sleeve. He whispered something in his leader's ear then fell back looking nervous. The guard looked straight at Sarevok. "Are you the bloke what killed Bert and Ernie in the Tavern Tree?"

"What of it?" growled Sarevok, lifting his sword.

"Um… never mind. We were just having some fun with the pointy ears. We don't want any trouble."

With that the guards turned and half ran back down the cobbled street. One of them dropped a gauntlet in his haste, but did not bother to turn back for it.

The elves bunched up together clutching their children's hands and gawped at Sarevok, eyes wide. He glared at them malevolently. The next thing he knew, to his abject horror, he was being swamped.

"That was incredible!"

"You saved us!"

"How can we ever thank you?"

"What is this? Get them off me!" Sarevok raged, pulling his hand clear of the elf man who was trying to shake it. Viconia snickered but Rasaad, being the one who had actually tried to intervene on the elves' behalf, looked deflated.

"But we still have nowhere to stay," the elf man fretted. "We have no choice but to wander the streets. I fear we will soon run afoul of Gromnir's men once more."

"That is unfortunate for you," Sarevok replied, trying to extract himself from their fawning hands.

"They took Mr Nibbles!" sniffled one of the kids. "They're going to put him in a pie!"

"We have no money and the innkeeper turned us away because he feared our wives would draw unwanted attention from the soldiers. Who else would have the heart and the room to take us all in?"

He seemed to be beseeching Sarevok for an answer, though the warrior could not for the life of him comprehend why.

"How should I know? I have only been here a day," he grumbled.

"Bless you for trying," cried one of the elves, who was carrying a small, wide-eyed child on her hip. "Thank the gods that there are heroes like you in this world!"

"Is this a joke?" asked a nonplussed Rasaad. The monk had always found humour challenging and was genuinely struggling to tell.

"ENOUGH!" Sarevok bellowed suddenly. The elves fell silent, the firefighters paused in their task. His golden eyes glared out of the pre-dawn darkness. "I have had enough of this. Where is the barracks where Gromnir's men are housed?"

A few of the townsfolk pointed mutely at a non-descript looking building.

"You think me some tree-hugging hero like my witless sister?" Sarevok blazed, slashing with his father's sword. "I will not skip about this town like your accursed errand boy. I will carve my own way out of this wretched hole if that is what it takes!"

The towns folk watched in silence, some peeping cautiously from the upstairs windows to get a better look. Rasaad and Viconia had little choice but to follow as Sarevok strode to the barracks and kicked the door in a fit of temper. It splintered, but the bolt was iron and it did not budge.

"Together?" suggested Rasaad. Sarevok groaned in disgust. He loathed the concept of teamwork. It was something that his corporate superiors had always been keen to promote back when he was working for the Iron Throne. None of them had any clear idea of what it actually meant, but that didn't put them off decorating the Iron Throne foyer with a series of inspirational paintings bearing captions like 'there is no I in team.'

Both men's feet struck the unfortunate door at the same time and it snapped in the middle with a crunch. Rasaad performed a spinning kick to take out the remains of the top half while Sarevok brought his full weight to bear on the bottom and the way into the barracks was clear.

* * *

* * *

"Well lad. You've been on quite the journey," Keldorn observed.

Anomen looked like a different man. He had, with difficulty, persuaded his father to grant him a loan from the family coffers on the condition that he never bother him again. His beard was neat and trim and he had purchased armour which was ungilded but more practical than the sort he might have chosen in the past. With a pastry and ale bought with his change in hand, he gazed out over one of the bridges in the temple district.

"Indeed," replied Anomen taking a bite of potato and steak. His was a wearier and more mature voice than the one Keldorn remembered. "I wish to thank you, teacher… for all your help in the past. I do not think I have ever said such to you before Keldorn."

"Teacher now is it?" chuckled Keldorn, crossing his arms over the bridge.

"Aye Keldorn. They say the best teachers are those with the patience to instruct the foolish…"

Keldorn sighed.

"Don't be too hard on yourself over Arowan, lad. None of us saw it coming. For her of all people… I was fond of the child, I cannot deny that her fall into darkness saddens me, but what is done is done."

"I was not speaking of the Adversary. That I failed my test the first time had naught to do with Arowan nor any other but myself. I have not been the easiest student."

Keldorn smiled. There was certainly no denying this.

"Nor I the wisest instructor," he confessed. "But we have each done our best and found peace in our own way."

Anomen felt his throat go suddenly rather tight and he took a long draught of ale.

"I suppose that is true. Thank you… for everything."

The old paladin nodded.

"Finish your lunch lad and then make a round of the taverns, see if you can find anybody willing to sell their mounts. We're short about a dozen cart horses. I'll see if I can source some more jerky for the march south, otherwise we'll be living off dry biscuits as soon as the fresh food goes off."

* * *

* * *

"Why is there a rabbit in here?"

Sarevok and Rasaad turned around panting, both men sporting their fair share of other men's blood. Gromnir Il-Khan's men had not been pleased by the disturbance, leaving them no choice but to defend themselves. Sarevok's pulse had already been up and he had no objection to this, and neither did Rasaad though he would try to tell himself otherwise.

The floor was strewn with a mixture of fallen orcs, hobgoblins a few humans and their part-ogre commander. Also, for some reason, a live rabbit.

"Presumably they meant to eat it," growled Sarevok. "Their loss, our gain."

He tried to snatch up the white fluffy creature, but it lashed out with its back legs with surprising strength and hopped away from him. Rasaad tried to intercept it but it shook them both by zigzagging and disappeared under one of the beds.

"Well males," said Viconia, poking an orc with her foot, "I'm not convinced this little brawl actually got us anywhere, but you had fun and that's the important thing."

She set about inspecting the soldiers' trunks and bodies for any useful loot, though there was not a lot to be had. Three hundred gold coins would cover their tab at the Tavern Tree for a while, there were rations in the kitchen and a slab of soap next to a large porcelain tub.

The males were trying to catch the rabbit. She wasn't sure why they were bothering. Sarevok said that he was looking forward to a fresh rabbit dinner, but after the first few minutes she began to suspect that the two bald warriors were competing with each other in a game of skill. Well, it was important that they be kept exercised, she supposed.

Taking their packs, she began to fill them with as much of the food as they could carry; particularly dried meat, biscuits and anything that would keep. There was no telling how long this siege might go on for and she did not mean to go hungry.

Only then did she focus her effort on the real prize. Keys.

She found them everywhere; in the pockets of the dead, hanging from a ring in the kitchens, shoved under pillows and in bedside drawers. Some of the keys opened locked trunks which in turn yielded more keys. A long shrill shriek startled her so much that she almost dropped her fistfuls of the jangly metal things.

"Aha!" cried Sarevok, holding up the struggling rabbit by the scruff of its neck and thrusting it triumphantly in Rasaad's face.

"Congratulations, mighty warriors, you have conquered a rodent," Viconia sneered, flicking her silver hair behind her shoulders. "Now for Shar's sake let us see whether any of these keys open the sewers before we find ourselves waist deep in excrement."

They emerged from the barracks to find the elves still there, listening on tenterhooks to the crashes and bangs within. Joining them were a number of the city's off-duty guards and resident commoners. Rasaad, Sarevok and Viconia emerged blinking into the light of dawn to find themselves engulfed with cheers and praise.

"They did it! They freed us from Gromnir's thugs!"

"How can we ever thank you?"

"You found Mr Nibbles!"

" _What?"_ Sarevok cried out aghast, as the rabbit was taken from his stunned hands by an ecstatic young elf. "Do you know how long it took me to catch that thing?"

He was about to snatch the rabbit back when it struck him that his chances of finding a woman in Saradush would be severely hampered if he were so petulant as to fight a little boy for his pet.

"What a hero," cried the elf leader. "He takes down an entire garrison single-handed-"

"Single-handed?" objected Rasaad and Viconia together, but nobody was paying them any attention. They, after all, did not have glowing golden eyes.

"-and he finds time to return my son's pet."

"What nonsense is this?" Sarevok frowned.

" _And_ he promised to find us somewhere to stay!"

"I did not!"

"Sir, we would know the name of our champion?"

The Bhaalspawn hesitated.

"Sarevok. Sarevok Anchev."

"Three cheers for Sarevok Anchev; the Hero of Saradush!"

Sarevok looked to his companions in bemusement, but they had already wandered off and were testing Viconia's many keys against the nearest sewer hatch one by one. The way the people were looking at him…

He had been equally well known in Baldur's Gate of course, but even before his plots were exposed he had been more notorious than famous. People had viewed him with a sense of awed dread. He had been voted a Grand Duke because the other nobles saw in him their best chance of surviving war with Amn, not because he was especially popular. He had certainly never been called the _Hero_ of Baldur's Gate. That title had gone to another.

"It works!" Viconia squealed suddenly, massively over-excited. She checked herself. "I mean; I have discovered a way into the sewers, males. Follow me."

He strode over to them, as Rasaad heaved the manhole cover aside and began to climb down into the stinking depths. Before following him, he turned his glowing eyes back to the excited crowd of waving people.

Sarevok the Hero of Saradush.

He didn't hate it.


	9. Jaheira

The sewage system of Saradush was not so bad as the one under Baldur's Gate, whether this was because it had been boarded up for a while or because Saradush was generally drier. It stank but not overpoweringly so and the suspicious oozes dripping from the overhead pipes were not sentient.

An arrow hissed toward Sarevok's breastplate, struck him in the middle, and bounced off harmlessly. It landed at his feet with a sad little clatter. Very slowly the Bhaalspawn lifted his eyes from it to its stunned archer.

"Saradush soldiers have found us! Quick!"

"Seems we have disrupted an assault from beneath," said Sarevok.

"Shall I assist you, or does the ' _Hero of Saradush'_ have it covered?" Rasaad enquired, only slightly sourly.

"They're no giants but they're wearing Yaga-Shura's colours," Viconia pointed out. "I suppose giants wouldn't fit down these filthy drains. What do you suppose they're up to?"

It did not take them long to find out. Yaga-Shura's followers had been busy laying explosives beneath the city in devastating quantities. Enough to take down a huge section of wall and a large portion of the city's housing stock all in one go.

"It is too dangerous to leave this much unexploded material down here!" cried Rasaad as he smashed two of the saboteur's helmets together with a rattling clang. "We should warn the city so that they can dispose of it!"

"Light it up and send it back where it came from!" Sarevok laughed. "Are these feeble minions really the best Yaga-Shura could do? Ha! Another second rate Bhaalspawn proves that he is no match for me!"

"I am pleased that at least one of us is having fun."

"This way! Look!" called Viconia.

There was a ladder leading up and an iron hatch above their heads. Even with the key, opening it was a strenuous business. Rasaad and Sarevok were forced to balance either side of the ladder like circus performers while very slowly twisting it loose.

Pushing it aside was even harder. It was five inches of solid iron. The ladder rungs groaned precariously beneath their feet and by the time they managed to heave it clear both men were dotted with sweat.

Sarevok poked his head up first, like a rabbit popping out of his hole. He cursed vehemently.

"What is it? Rasaad asked, climbing up after him. When he saw where they were, words failed him.

Viconia, on the other hand, laughed so hard she almost wet herself. They were back in the streets of Saradush, swarmed once more by Sarevok's new army of admirers, not twenty feet north of where they started.

Naturally the news that the Hero of Saradush had foiled an attempt to blow them all up ballooned the Bhaalspawn's popularity. People were suddenly bending over themselves to ask where he was staying, of course he could not possibly go back to the Tankard Tree with the windows blown in. Some of the enquirers were very pretty.

"Greetings Sarevok Anchev. The others told me of everything you have done here. My name is Sister Farielle. If you have need of healing after your battles, or somewhere to bathe after the sewers, the Temple of Waukeen is open to you."

"Your temple has a bathhouse?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It has an indoor heated pool. Amongst… other amenities we could provide for the Hero of Saradush."

Sarevok looked her up and down. The priestess had a slight build and a face with sharp almost pixie-like features. She smiled. Like all the other people in this asylum of a town, she was gazing at him with shining eyes.

"Perhaps we have done enough for one day," he told his companions in a thoughtful voice. "I will… er… meet you at the Tankard Tree for breakfast."

"Call it a day? We've not even had lunch!" Viconia objected, but Sarevok was already walking away. The smell of roasting beef wafting from the direction of her own lodgings dissuaded the tired drow from arguing any further.

* * *

* * *

The sun was setting over Athkatla casting a pinkish glow over the tallest spires. High city walls blocked the sun when it was low in the sky which meant that dawn came slightly later and dusk slightly sooner inside of the city than out.

Close to the city gates at the door of the Crooked Crane Inn, Sir Anomen was trying to buy a horse. His combing of the city had gained him most of the mounts that Sir Keldorn had requested but he was still short two steeds.

"We ain't got none posh boy," spat the innkeeper unhelpfully. "Our stables are for the guests."

Having nothing else to do, and in no mood yet for sleep, Anomen ordered an ale. It was fifty percent greying foam and served in a tankard which felt suspiciously greasy under his fingers. He sat outside swigging and watching the gates, in the hopes of buying a couple of travel steeds from new arrivals before anybody else did.

After a few traders flatly refused to sell and another demanded an outrageous price for his tuckered old shire horse, Anomen gave up. He was just returning his empty tankard when a frantic scramble of hooves drew up outside.

They watched through the grubby oriel windows as the panting animal whinnied and its rider half-fell from the saddle with fatigue.

The barman grinned toothily.

"Looks like you're in luck posh boy."

Anomen strode outside to inspect the beast. He was no expert on horses but having been raised in a noble house he'd spent enough time with them to know that this one was in poor shape. It was wheezing from exhaustion but its hooves were twitching like it had drunk a trough full of coffee.

"A Potion of Speed?" Anomen raised an eyebrow. Amongst the aristocracy, who tended to value their animals rather more highly than their human servants, using these on horses was considered bad form. "And what brings you to Athkatla in such a hurry my good elf?"

"A- Anomen!" the elf wheezed, staggering to his feet and pulling his hood back to reveal a sweep of auburn hair and terrified jade eyes. "Thank the gods I ran into you!"

"Coran!" Anomen blinked, shaking his hand because he could not think what else to do.

Theirs was an odd acquaintance in that, on the one hand, they barely knew each other having only met twice but on the other those two interactions had been intense enough to leave them overly familiar.

"Help me!" the elf panted. "It's almost nightfall, she'll be here soon."

"Who?" demanded Anomen urgently, his blood surging. His first thought was of Arowan.

"The vampire Jaheira!"

Anomen felt as though his insides were filling up with lead.

"Tell me what happened," he said hoarsely. He took the horse's bridle in one hand and half carried the elf with his free arm back in the direction of the Temple District.

Sweat was coursing down Coran's face and Anomen wondered just how long he had been galloping that horse without a break. The elf wiped his dripping forehead with his sleeve.

"I was on my way here from Baldur's Gate. By the time I reached Beregost I knew I was being followed but I didn't know what by. When I stopped at the Inn in Nashkel I slept in my armour with my weapons handy just in case, which saved my life. I woke up in the middle of the night to find Jaheira standing over me."

"We hadn't seen hide nor hair of her since she was bitten," Anomen told him. He was having a mixed flood of unpleasant emotions. After Jaheira's undeath, events had unfolded so fast that he had not had time to process her loss. "What does she want with you?"

"I've no idea!" panted Coran, "But there she was in Nashkel, standing over my bed dressed all in black hunting-leather and holding a whipping rod. At first I thought I was having a _really_ good dream so I-"

"Let's stick to the _relevant_ information," groaned Anomen.

"Long story short, I barely escaped with my life," Coran told him. "Damn she is fast! And strong! Not to mention persistent."

"And you do not know why she has targeted you specifically?"

"I swear, I don't have a clue."

Anomen sat down heavily on a bench. They were within sight of the Temple District now, but the horse had seen the ornamental lakes and was indicating in no uncertain terms that they were proceeding no further until it had a drink. The knight could not both force it and carry Coran. Clearly the elf didn't want to stop, but he reassured him that Jaheira could only travel by night which meant they had some time before she caught up with them.

"Besides, I can always Turn Undead if needs be."

"I dunno mate, she's really strong," Coran replied breathlessly. He knelt down by the water and splashed it over his face. "I mean really strong. To be honest I'm surprised she has nothing better to do than track me so far. I'm pretty sure she was following me all the way from Baldur's Gate."

"Baldur's Gate! That's where Bodhi sent her to deliver the… er… oh." Anomen hesitated. Both times they had met previously, the elf had been nothing short of hysterical over the fact that his best friend had been skinned alive and turned into a coat but there was nothing for it. He felt compelled to get to the bottom of this. "Bodhi sent Jaheira to Baldur's Gate to deliver Freya's fur coat to Duke Silvershield."

Coran shook the water from his head and stood up abruptly. Suddenly things were starting to make sense.

"When they put that coat on Skie's body she came back to life," he said. "Or she seemed to, but Bhaa… but an expert told me that it wasn't really her. That must be why she sent Jaheira after me. She knows I know. Probably knows I'm looking for the Soultaker dagger too…"

"Ah," said Anomen.

"What 'ah?' That sounded like a bad 'ah.'"

"Arowan has the Soultaker dagger," the knight informed him heavily. "And at present she is slaughtering her way around Tethir with a vast swarm of undead, trying to destroy the world as we know it."

Coran let this new piece of information sink in for a moment and wet his lips delicately.

"Right" he grimaced, his face pained but resolute. "Right. Ok. This is not an insurmountable problem. We can figure this out."

"We're readying an army of our own to march south and face her," Anomen informed him, with just a flicker of his old pride returning at his restored status. "Perhaps it would be best if you return with me to the Order of the Radiant Heart and consult with Sir Keldorn on how to proceed.

"She'll be coming for me," Coran pointed out.

"One vampire against an entire order of paladins?" Anomen replied brusquely. He grabbed the reins of the horse and slapped Coran on the back to get him moving again. "Let her come!"

Yet for all his bravado, his expression was troubled.

* * *

* * *

The following day in Saradush seemed to drag on forever. The city, it transpired, had a lot of manhole covers. One of them must lead to where they wanted to go, but each one took such an effort to lift that checking them was a time-consuming task. Instead of opening them at random, they were now trying to take the pipes that led in the general direction of Gromnir's keep. Even so there was no obvious path. Twice now they had emerged frustrating inches the wrong side of the castle.

Several setbacks had frustrated their efforts, including a catapult shot striking the ground near one of the manhole covers they were trying to lift. The vibration had caused them to drop it and fall from the ladder into the slimy muck below.

"So Sarevok," Viconia smirked, as she watched the males trying to shift yet another reluctant iron disc from its place above the sewer ladder, "How was your stay with the priestess? Did you take full advantage of all that the temple had to offer?"

"Taking advantage of these people is no laughing matter!" Rasaad snapped.

"Mind your own business!" Sarevok replied, his eyes flashing.

"I am merely curious as to how a male so seemingly aloof as yourself approaches courtship," Viconia pressed. "Tell me, will you content yourself with one female for the time being or do you mean to establish yourself a hareem in this city, as you did in Baldur's Gate?"

"Curiosity killed the drow…" he threatened.

His face reddened and not only from the effort of shifting the drain cover. An expression of wicked delight blossomed over Viconia's features.

"You didn't sate yourself with Sister Farielle at all, did you?" smirked Viconia. "And she practically gave you a written invitation! Go on then. Tell us. How did you blow it?"

"My private life is no concern of yours," Sarevok squirmed.

"Ignore Viconia," Rasaad comforted him. "It is natural not to feel comfortable sharing such intimacy with a stranger. Do not judge yourself for being unable to do so. Perhaps once you have grown to know this Sister Farielle better and formed a genuine attachment…"

Viconia squeaked with laughter, a high-pitched guinea pig-like squeal which bounced off the metal pipes and echoed away into the darkness.

"There was no problem of that nature!" Sarevok snapped defensively, pausing in his efforts for a moment and leaning with his legs wrapped around the ladder and his back on the cold stone brickwork. "If you must know, Farielle asked if there was anything she could do for me and I requested…" he swallowed his shame. "I requested that she open the temple to those blasted elves."

Whatever answer his companions had been expecting, it wasn't that. Viconia and Rasaad stared at each other, unable to think of a suitable response. The monk looked rather gratified, the drow utterly contemptuous. Sarevok did not appreciate either expression.

"It was that or have them slurping at my boots every time I step outside," Sarevok said defensively. "A lost night with one priestess is a small price to pack them out of my way."

"If you say so," Raasad replied calmly, but the hostility in his manner had markedly decreased.

Deciding that the best way to move on from this would be to find Gromnir, Sarevok forced his full weight against the manhole cover. Between them, he and Rasaad shifted it aside, only to find themselves emerging directly in front of the castle gates.

"I hate everything," Sarevok groaned. "Shall we call it a day and try again tomorrow?"

"Calling time early again?" Rasaad raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, my friend, I would think you did not want to leave Saradush at all."

"Bah. Saradush is nothing but a cesspit of weakness and idiocy."

"It is difficult to vouch for the mental capacity of a populace who would hail you as their hero," confessed Rasaad, "But these people are not weak. They are facing great hardship and near certain defeat with remarkable courage. I cannot deny that your presence here is helping to bolster that courage."

Sarevok rolled his eyes, but because they were a solid colour, nobody noticed.

* * *

* * *

"That Jaheira was turned is a great shame," Keldorn said wearily. "I would count her loss as heavy as any of our own Order. However, we cannot allow a servant of Bodhi to wander the city unchecked. Especially one so strong as she. I do not know what powers a druid-turned-vampire would retain, but judging by the speed with which she tracked you down we must assume that she has some. How would you like to handle this?"

"I… Let me be the one to stake her. I owe her that much," Anomen replied.

"We are meant to be marching at dawn," Keldorn reminded him sternly. "If I didn't know better, I would say that your personal feelings are distracting you from the task at hand."

"Perhaps," admitted Anomen, "But entrusting this to anyone else would be an unconscionable betrayal. I owe her my life and yet I have let her down by every possible measure. Let me atone by releasing her from the indignity of unlife. Upon my honour, I will be ready to ride at first light."

"How can you be so sure that you will find her tonight?" Keldorn asked.

"I will go to the Graveyard District directly," said Anomen. "I expect instinct will draw the vampire to her sire's lair, but if not I have bait."

He prodded the elf, who looked fit to pass out from exhaustion.

"Couldn't we have a rest first?" he moaned. "I'm famished."

"Would you like us to pack you a picnic?" asked Keldorn harshly. "Let us go now and get this cursed business over with. I am sure we will all rest easier once it is done."

"You are coming too?" asked Anomen.

"Aye… Jaheira was my comrade too and she would not have wished to exist in this state," Keldorn replied firmly. "The least we can do is perform this last service for her."

"I suppose so," sighed Coran. "But we should also send a message to Captain Corwin. She already knows that an imposter resides in Skie's body, but it would be as well to give her a heads up on exactly who it is she is dealing with."

"Bodhi to the north, Arowan to the south and Jaheira on our doorstep," said Anomen. "I find I grow nostalgic for the days when we had nothing greater to deal with than a mob of blind cultists."

"Speaking of which," Keldorn brightened and grabbed his sword, "I've not had a chance to update you yet on the excavations at the other Temple of Amaunator!"

"How is that going?" Anomen asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Please tell me, I am just aching to know."

"Splendidly!" Keldorn beamed as the three of them set out. "At least, it is now. There was a brief setback a few months ago, several of the archaeologists went missing. Turned up quite mutilated, and someone smashed the prophetess Amauna's remains to pieces. They put it down to a Shadow Dragon in the south-east corner of the temple and sealed that section off, but since then they have made some truly spectacular finds. Just last week we received a shipment of suncatchers dating back to…"

"See? You are in no danger!" Anomen said bracingly, thumping the weary elf on the back. "Should Jaheira overpower our physical defences we can simply let Sir Keldorn bore her to death."

"Watch your tongue, boy. You may be a knight now but I still outrank you," Keldorn reminded him, cuffing the younger man playfully over the back of the head.


	10. Bodhi's Lair

The graveyard reminded Coran of better days. Back when he had travelled the Sword Coast with Freya and Safana, tomb raiding had practically been their livelihood. Tempting though it was to relive old times, the elf knew better than to bring forth Bhaal in the presence of the Order of the Radiant Heart.

Torches were flickering in Bodhi's inner sanctum and the three men approached with caution, but it turned out to be nothing more threatening than a squat of addicts sharing black lotus.

"We have cause to believe that a powerful vampire is returning to this lair," Anomen informed them stiffly. "Begone, if you value your lives!"

There was no great rush to escape. Partly because most of the squatters were off their heads (a few entirely unconscious) but also because as squats went Bodhi's lair was quite luxurious and they were in no hurry to give it up. Keldorn's eyes roved over brightly painted walls and tags which he was rightly confident had not been added by the vampires.

"Way I see it… Way I see it…" began a waif-like woman, crossing her hazel eyes as she struggled to form a coherent thought train. "If we leave, right? If we leave we might run into this vampire on the way out, yeah? So we could do that… we could do that… or we could stay right here where the paladins are."

"They make a valid point," Coran said fairly. "How about we stay out of your way and you stay out of our way?"

The spokeswoman clawed at her straggly hair, considering this. She had painted her own face bright colours as well as the wall. Her wobbly designs extended even down her clothes.

"Yeah alright."

"And for Helm's sake close that door!" Anomen snapped, "Lest the fumes from this room put us at a severe disadvantage in the fight to come."

"I wouldn't mind being a vampire…" they heard one of the lotus takers musing as they heaved the stone vault entrance shut.

"We had best check downstairs," Anomen suggested. "It could be that she has retreated to Bodhi's inner sanctum."

Plucking a torch from the wall and using it to light others as they went along, the three of them crept through an eerily quiet banquet hall and down a flight of steps to the long corridor leading to Bodhi's inner chambers. Not so much as a rat squeaking could be heard down here.

As soon as they reached the lower level of Bodhi's abandoned hideout it was obvious why the squatters had chosen to make their den elsewhere. Pools of long-dried blood were everywhere and there was an unpleasant coppery smell so strong they could taste it when they opened their mouths to speak. There was no sign that Jaheira, nor anyone else had come this way recently.

Keldorn drew his sword and Anomen cast a few protective spells, while Coran notched an arrow. They waited. And waited.

Coran's arms grew tired and he lowered his bow, Anomen's spells wore off and Keldorn was soon leaning on the sword rather than standing at the ready. The elf found himself caught in the crossfire between the two knights' glares and grinned apologetically.

"She is coming all the way from Nashkel," he pointed out. "I had a big head start in daylight."

"We are supposed to be leading an army at dawn, elf!" Keldorn growled.

"Why don't you get some rest?" Coran suggested. He was more fatigued than any of them, but probably the least use in a fight against the undead. Besides, he was confident that he could find a wagon or some such to take a nap on when the army took to the road. As the leaders, the knights would be expected to ride at the front.

The others concurred grumpily and made themselves as comfortable as they could with the dusty hangings and throws, trying not to think to carefully about the bloodstains on them.

To keep himself from succumbing to sleep, Coran began to explore the sanctum. It had been stripped of any gems, treasure, or sellable armour it might have once contained. All that was left were Bodhi's own remains (a black shrivelled lump of a heart surrounded by a pile of ashes) and three books. Feeling his eyes starting to close of their own accord, the elf began to read them just to keep awake.

" _Conjur Ota Servanta,_ " he read the title before flipping through, skim-reading. It contained a section of the personal journal of a noble named Tomass Sangui and dealt with the acquisition and control of vampiric servants. The detailing of the long process of completely turning a victim was unsavoury but morbidly interesting enough to keep Coran awake. Yawning in the torchlight he turned a page and his green eyes widened. "If the process is interrupted it can be reversed… How?"

But the book did not reveal how. Coran picked up the second of the three and read on.

" _Dea Vampir Becomos…_ no this is no good," he muttered to himself. "This is for people like that prat upstairs who want to become vampires… _The Vampiricus Omnibus: Unabridged…"_

Coran did not recognise the language but Bodhi had scrawled a translation of selected passages in the margins. It recorded a historical event known as the Plague of Teeth when vampire numbers had gotten severely out of hand. According to the script the newly infected were taken to the Temple of the Sun Lord Amaunator and placed in his arms, whatever that meant. The incompletely turned were revived as living men and women.

The elf remembered Anomen teasing Keldorn about the Amaunator temples and picked up the book to show them, but both knights were fast asleep. Would this cure work for Jaheira? She was by no means newly turned, having existed in this state for months now, but on the other hand she had been bitten and immediately sent from her mistress. According to _Conjur Ota Servanta,_ a number of important steps in the turning process had been missed.

There were no more books in the tomb, except the untranslated passages that Coran was unable to read. He had searched every cranny, combed every last inch for hidden compartments. The torches were burning low and there was no sound but the rhythmic snoring of Sir Keldorn breathing in and out… in and out…

The elf sat with his back against a blood pool, watching the entrance, his green eyes growing heavier and heavier…

* * *

* * *

"You don't look like one of the locals. Are you a child of Bhaal as well, lured here like the rest of us to face our inevitable end?"

"You're end _will_ be inevitable if you don't leave me to eat in peace," Sarevok threatened, spearing a fat dumpling on the end of his fork.

"My name is Alexander Ralisar, I myself am one of Bhaal's progeny, or so I've been told," the tremulous young man went on, much to Sarevok's irritation. "I guess Bhaal's blood runs thicker in some of his children than in others."

This, Sarevok had learned in death was literally true. Reproducing, whether it was with mortals or other gods, took a portion of divine essence from the immortal parent and imparted it to the offspring. It was why Bhaal had needed to sire so many. Had he divided his essence between only a few demigods, the resulting individuals would have been far too powerful. Spreading his essence so thinly meant that there was far less risk of any one Bhaalspawn surviving.

So each of them had a crumb of Bhaal's essence. Yet it was clear that some of those crumbs were much larger than others, as crumbs went. A few, like Freya, Sarevok and presumably Yaga-Shura, could probably qualify as whole cookies.

"By your snivelling manners, I would say that Bhaal's blood runs very thinly indeed in your veins," Sarevok told Alexander harshly. He bit down on a squat little dumpling and chewed it malevolently.

"Thank you!" his fellow Bhaalspawn twittered, mistaking Sarevok's contempt for a compliment.

Of course there were drawbacks to Bhaal's approach one being that he would have to die scores, perhaps hundreds of times before he could reform. Another was that it was taking a long time to harvest all of the essence. Yet the main issue Bhaal would face, as Sarevok knew from being briefly remerged with his father and siblings at the Twofold temple, was that he would no longer be the same person. Bhaal had meant for his spawn to be sacrificed as babies or at most young children, before their personalities were fully forged, but it hadn't worked out that way. The original Bhaal would be one remembered mortal life among many. No matter what the outcome, Bhaal as an individual no longer existed. If he were to eventually merge with the entity, then neither would Sarevok.

"How did you get here exactly?" asked Sarevok, when prolonged silence made it clear that the interloper was going nowhere.

"I wasn't brought here by Melissan like some of the others," Alexander sighed. "I fled here from Sembia. My home village was burned to the ground by a dragon who claimed to be hunting for me. My friends… my family… they threatened to give me to the dragon if I didn't leave. So I did. And I heard a lot of other Bhaalspawn were coming here. Now I wish I hadn't come. Or I would wish that, if not for you, Sarevok."

"Your confidence in my ability to survive is well-placed, but your confidence in my willingness to aid you is deeply misguided," Sarevok replied.

Alexander smiled.

"You're just like they said, pretending to be all cranky then helping those poor elves to find somewhere to stay."

"What exactly is it you want, little man?" Sarevok growled in the most threatening tone he could summon.

"Well, brother, word has gotten around about how Sister Farielle invited you back to the temple and her… er… reputation is better known than she realises. Pyrgam Aleson boasts to everyone he meets about their relationship within five minutes of being introduced to them. In Saradush 'visiting the temple' is practically a euphemism for…"

"I have no interest in puritan moralizing," Sarevok cut him off. "If you have a point get to it quickly. My patience wears thin."

"No need to be coy, brother, we're the same you and I," Alexander winked at him. "The other guests at the Tavern Tree noticed how you turned down an offer from that stunning elf lady you travel with as well as Sister Farielle. Seems we share common interests as well as a father. If you like I could make you some introductions?"

Sarevok blinked. It took him a moment to work out what his brother was getting at. Then he lowered his fork slowly.

"That will not be necessary."

"Are you sure?" Alexander looked surprised. "I know more than a few lads who would jump at the chance to spend some quality time with the Hero of Saradush."

"Thank you for the consideration but I am content to spend quality time with these dumplings and an ale."

"Sure you're sure?" the Bhaalspawn asked. He had brightened up considerably since shifting the subject from their impending demise to eligible batchelors.

"I am exceedingly fond of dumplings," Sarevok replied pointedly.

"Ah," said Alexander. "My mistake. Well, enjoy your meal… but I heartily recommend leaving room for Sister Farielle's dumplings. Pyrgam Aleson informs me that she is an excellent cook."

Sarevok snorted with laughter despite himself. Perhaps his less able Bhaalspawn brethren were not so objectionable after all.

* * *

* * *

Anomen was an extremely light sleeper. It was a by-product of his upbringing under his father's tyranny that the slightest untoward noise could jolt him out of slumber. On the edge of hearing, very light footsteps were creeping down the passageway. He leapt to his feet and kicked Keldorn awake.

"What is it?" groaned the aging paladin, wiping sleep from his eyes. He sat up blearily before focussing on Coran, who was lying propped up against one of the blood baths snoring gently. "Damn that elf!"

"I will have him if you don't want him."

The imperious, accented, slightly mocking tone was unmistakable. Jaheira. It was one thing to put the vampire to rest in theory but another thing in practise. Sir Anomen's heart began to pound sending blood to his head most unpleasantly. He gripped his weapon as much for balance as anything, feeling slightly nauseous.

"You are not Lady Jaheira," he said quietly.

"Anomen. Still smouldering in the embers of your childish feelings? I found it risible even in life, do not expect me to make time for you now."

"Maybe you _are_ still Jaheira," Anomen winced.

Her appearance was slightly altered, though she had not gone so far down the Bodhi-dress-code as Coran's description had led him to believe. Her blonde wig had been traded for a deathly white one, and her complexion was greyer. She had swapped her brown leathers for black and her staff for a slender ebony cane, but other than that she was much the same as she had ever been.

She laughed a little at his joke, revealing little kitten-like fangs rather than the extended sabres sported by vampires he had met in the past.

"I see you are back with the Order," Jaheira arched an eyebrow as she took in his new insignia. "Must be quite a story behind that. Pity we will not have time to tell it. Well? Are you going to destroy me or are you not?"

"Why do you challenge us, fiend, when you know you cannot triumph?" Keldorn growled.

"I am bound to follow the instructions of my sire, but I take no pleasure in this existence," Jaheira replied. "I must destroy Coran and the knowledge he carries if I can. And you too, I suppose, now that you know of my mistress's true nature. But three against one? The odds are not in my favour."

She did not seem overly concerned about this. From the floor, Coran gave a particularly loud snore. Three pairs of eyes turned to glare at him simultaneously.

"You cannot be serious? The great lump is still asleep?" Jaheira scoffed. "Two against one it is then."

A series of small rifts appeared in the air about them and she summoned beasts to fight for her. Yet it seemed that in light of her transformation, nature had become reluctant to answer her call. The two wolves and a bear she brought forth were stunted creatures with withered limbs.

The chamber was not really large enough to comfortably accommodate a full-grown grizzly and it lurched toward Keldorn, swiping at him with a paw. The paladin caught the blow on his shield and was swept a foot sideways though it did him no damage. He wielded his sword in an arc over the offending bear leg causing the creature to roar with rage and pain.

"Keldorn, you look pensive. Are you well?" the vampire druid asked conversationally.

A vine broke through the floor and wrapped around his ankle, sending him crashing to the ground in his armour. Like the creatures, however, the nature spell was tainted and rather than impeding them the vines quickly withered and died. Keldorn rolled aside to avoid the bear's crushing paw while Anomen bludgeoned a wolf's skull.

"I am well enough, Jaheira, though our circumstance gives me reason to pause."

The other wolf chomped down hard on Coran's arm. The elf woke with a shriek, his hand reaching reflexively for his dagger, stabbing randomly at the creature until it released its grip.

"I've just about had it with waking up to fucking wolves!" he panted, staggering to his feet, hand clamped over his bleeding arm.

"Careful Coran, or your bite may get infected," Jaheira reprimanded him.

Waking up fully, Coran remembered his reading from the night before.

"Don't destroy her!" he told the others. "The process of turning her was disrupted, she's not yet a proper vampire!"

"That would explain why I have retained the use of my powers," Jaheira muttered, promptly using them to call forth a nymph.

The nymph materialised with a sound like a strumming harp, turning her glowing eyes on Coran. Long red hair fanned out behind her, framing the wood spirit's barely present dress.

"By the gods Jaheira, you just get better and better," sighed Coran. "Can you summon two of these at once?"

"Since I must kill you, I am pleased at least to ensure that your death is a pleasant one," the semi-vampire replied acidly. Suddenly her expression faltered. "No, what are you…? I summoned you to fight for me!"

But the nymph was not minded to obey a vampire and promptly entrapped Jaheira in a Hold Person spell. The vampire stood rigid in the middle of the room, eyes flickering left and right as she fought to throw off the curse.

"Stake her now!" Keldorn thundered.

"Hold!" bellowed Anomen. "Coran are you trying to say that there might be a remedy for Jaheira's affliction?"

"Huh?" blinked Coran, who had difficulty resisting the mind control effect of nymphs even when they were fighting on his side. Anomen dispelled her, much to the elf's disappointment. "Yes! Bodhi was looking for one, for herself I presume. I read through her notes while I was trying to stay awake…"

"We shall have words about that later," growled Keldorn darkly.

Jaheira broke free of the nymph's spell and seized Coran, pulling his head back and plunging her fangs toward his neck. Only a hasty Hold Person spell from Anomen stopped her from biting him, and he lay in her arms, his head resting against her soft chest.

"They took the newly infected to the Temple of Amaunator…"

"Which one, boy, there are two!" cried Keldorn, despite the fact that Coran was a lot older than he was.

"I don't know!"

"For the love of Torm…" muttered Keldorn, snatching up Bodhi's notes to skim through them himself. "They mean the Umar Hills temple. They placed their dead into the arms of Amaunator. What does that mean? And aren't you going to get up?"

Coran had not yet moved his head from where it lay, propped on Jaheira's bosom with his neck perilously positioned between her teeth. He looked like a cat having its belly rubbed.

"I suppose so," he said, reluctantly, slipping from the grasp of the paralysed vampire.

"Sir Keldorn? I believe I know what the passage refers to," said Anomen.

Despite Keldorn's enthusiasm for the uncovered temples, he had not had the chance to visit both of them yet. It had been Anomen, Jaheira, Arowan, Yoshimo, Rasaad and Viconia who had investigated the second temple in the Umar Hills and now the young knight was recalling a strange but minor event there which he had almost forgotten.

_As the party made their way through the ruins, they had stumbled across a blue marble statue of a woman, kneeling at the end of a trapped floor. It was clearly special, for her eyes blazed with light. She was holding out her arms as though waiting for something to be placed in them._

_And Jaheira had stopped at the foot of the statue and gazed up at it as though in a trance. Anomen had been obliged to shake her quite hard before the druid would snap out of it and move on._

_"Are you alright?"_

_"Yes… and no…" Jaheira had answered slowly, her eyes turning uneasily to the waiting statue. "I felt… strange. As though someone were stepping over my grave."_

Something flickered in the paralysed vampire's eyes as he recalled this story. Was it, perhaps, hope? Yet as Bodhi's servant she would be obligated to attack them at the next opportunity.

"Has anybody got any rope?" demanded Anomen. Coran winced.

"Nay. Ask our thief," said Keldorn.

"Not on me, no."

"What kind of thief doesn't carry rope?" Anomen cried in exasperation.

"I don't have any! Could we please change the subject?" Coran snapped, plucking Jaheira's ebony switch from her hand and snapping it over his knee.

"That problem is easily fixed. We can bind her in a coffin and Coran can carry her to Umar by cart," Keldorn replied, scratching his chin. "Unfortunately, as I recall, that statue is in the part of the temple that was sealed off because of the shadow dragon."

Anomen remembered that dragon. The party had no possible hope of defeating it then and Coran certainly couldn't alone. Even together he and the elf had no hope of subduing the beast unless…

He cast his mind back to the conversation the party had had immediately following their discovery of the statue.

_"Hey here's a thought!" Arowan had said, changing the subject abruptly. "I'm going to go out on a limb here, and guess that this dragon we're approaching is probably of the evil variety. Supposing, Viconia, you were to walk up to it and say; 'Hey buddy! Servant of all Faiths here. How about letting us go?'"_

_Rasaad had scowled at her while the drow made a faint hissing noise. Arowan had grinned at them both._

_"Why not?" she'd laughed, "It worked a treat on Firkraag."_

"Prelate Wessalen did say he needed somebody willing to make moral compromises…" Anomen muttered. "Sir Keldorn I must request a leave of absence to take Jaheira to the Temple of Amaunator. I believe I have a way of defeating the shadow dragon."

"Are you going to tell me what it is?" the older man asked suspiciously.

"With respect, Sir, you'll be happier not knowing."

"Might I remind you that you and I are supposed to be marching to Tethir on the morrow to stand against the Adversary herself?" Keldorn rebuked him. "We cannot delay the journey for one woman, however much we may regret her loss. Delegate this mission!"

"That is not possible," replied Anomen. "My honour compels me to attempt to revive Jaheira and I cannot ask another to take this risk."

For a heavy risk it was. The rest of his party were far to the south in Toril, the Order were marching to join them and all he had to fight alongside him was Coran. The only plan he could come up with to defeat the shadow dragon was to use another dragon.

Firkraag hoarded information, and what a lot of secrets they could give him now. The evil dragon _might_ agree to make the trade. Alternatively he might hunt him down and torture him until he had revealed everything he knew, without risking his scaly neck against the shadow dragon.

"There is far more at stake here than one woman's life."

"Jaheira meant more to Arowan than anyone!" Anomen argued, grasping at straws. "Perhaps she could persuade her to stop all of this! Or she might know some weakness of Arowan's that we do not!"

"That's a flimsy argument lad, and you know it," replied Keldorn. "You care about her a great deal, don't you?"

"I… I considered her a friend, certainly," Anomen replied defensively, "And I admired her a great deal."

"As did I lad. As did I," Keldorn said gruffly, pulling off his helmet and looking from the frozen vampire to Anomen and back again trying to make up his mind. "Like I say it is a weak argument, but perhaps I can sell it to the Prelate. Very well Sir, make haste, and catch us up as soon as you are able."

"Aye my Lord."

Anomen held Jaheira in place until Keldorn returned with ropes to bind her, a coffin and a cart. They bound the outside of the wooden box with heavy chains and loaded her onto the wagon, concealed under heavy kegs of Nashkel Tavern's Bespoke House Ale.

"This is your driver, Bernard," Keldorn told them. "He is on loan to us from the Harpers to assist you in reviving one of their own."

"The Harpers know about this?"

"Elminster does. He was lurking on the steps of the Order headquarters when I got there. It seems that your stalker had a stalker of her own, Coran," Keldorn said.

"Sounds a bit creepy when you put it like that," Coran noted.

"Jaheira is an old friend," Bernard told them, shaking both their hands. "I'll get you all to Umar safe and sound. She'll be beating us about the shins with her staff in no time."

There was nothing left to do but send word to the Windspear Hills. As a precaution, Anomen sent his letter in duplicate in case something untoward should befall one of the messengers. Such as being burned to a crisp and eaten.

He dipped his pen in a well of ink, held his metaphorical nose and began;

" _To Lord Firkraag…"_


	11. Bonding

Feeling that they may as well start at the sewer hatch nearest to Gromnir’s castle, Viconia’s party were headed across the courtyard when a catapult shot struck the ground close to them. The force knocked all three sideways in a wave of scorching heat.

“They are getting more frequent, I heard one land in the night too,” Rasaad panted, brushing ash from his face and straightening up.

“Yaga-Shura must have realised that if he fires one catapult a day everyone will relax after the first shot lands,” said Viconia. “He wants us all constantly on edge.”

“Daddy!”

The party peered through the smoke to see a man in early middle-age lying prone on the ground. A little boy of no more than eight was shaking him frantically to wake up but to no avail. Necks were not supposed to bend at that angle.

Rasaad sprinted over to him, burying his nose into his shirt against the acrid smoke.

“Are you injured? Let me see,” he said kindly.

“I’m fine but Daddy’s not. He’s not moving! Can you help him?”

Rasaad lifted the man in both arms and led the group in the direction of the temple. When he got there, the elves who were lodging in the alcoves scrambled to their feet in alarm. Sister Farielle sighed and her eyes grew dim.

“Alas, I have used all my spells for today, and the waiting list is long. Too long and growing, for if I do not prioritise reviving the city’s defenders then we are all doomed. I fear this poor man will decompose before I get to him. Cannot your own cleric aid him?”

“Me?” Viconia blinked, all eyes on her, “I have never even attempted this spell previously.”

“Not even as a priestess in Menzoberranzan?” Rasaad pressed. “You are relatively new to the service of your current goddess, but surely under Lolth you had the power to bring those close to you back?”

“When those closest to me died in Menzoberranzan, I never _wanted_ them to come back! Usually I was the one who dispatched them in the first place!”

The little boy had curled up on the temple floor in his dead father’s arms, snuffling and shivering. Rasaad was reminded uncomfortably of his own father’s passing in Calimport. He and Gamaz had sheltered in their small brick home for days, crying and scavenging what little was left in the cupboards until their landlord came to turf them into the streets. At least they’d had each other. This boy, it seemed, had no one.

To the monk’s astonishment, it was Sarevok who persuaded Viconia to intervene.

“I suggest we use this man as a test subject, to determine how far your healing powers extend Viconia,” the Bhaalspawn suggested. “Rasaad fights so feebly that if you _can_ cast resurrection spells yourself it is likely to save the party a great deal of gold.”

“Wrap it up in as many insults as you choose my friend, but your actions speak louder than your words. Death has changed you,” the monk replied with annoying serenity. “The light may have a purpose for you yet, Sarevok Anchev.”

“Hold your tongue monk, lest you find your own light suddenly extinguished,” he growled in reply.

Viconia was irritated, but at the same time curious to know how far her powers as a cleric had increased over the course of their travels. That they had grown was beyond question. She no longer had to limit herself to healing one person at a time and she could remove petty burns and poisons, often before the males in her party had even noticed them.

Casting a new spell was made harder by having an audience of rubber-necking darthiir, and she crouched down on the cold stone floor feeling quite exposed.

She focussed her energies, feeling the power of Shar rising within her, though healing this man was something she could hardly justify to her goddess. A small boy so brutally deprived of his father was prime fodder for the cult of the Lady of Loss. Better to take the child and induct him into the Nightsinger’s shadow and yet…

_“Vita, mortis, caereo…”_

The man blinked and sat up, to squeals of joy from the small child. He was thanking Sarevok and Rasaad profusely, but she did not have the energy to be annoyed by it. The cleric remained rooted exactly where she was, without the energy to stand. It was as though life had been sucked from her and into the man as she cast the spell.

“When I grow up I want to be a warrior and save Daddys just like you!” the little boy performed a clumsy series of spinning kicks while slashing with an imaginary sword.

“Which of us child?” Rasaad asked, “The path of the Sun Soul monks is not an easy one.”

“You imagine my path has been?” Sarevok retorted. “Next time we find ourselves in hell, ask the Bitch of Baldur’s Gate to feast upon your liver while you watch. I assure you it will do wonders for putting your other troubles into perspective.”

“I don’t feel well,” moaned Viconia.

“Viconia! Are you alright!” cried Rasaad with belated gallantry.

“Are you deaf, male? I just told you I’m not!” Viconia snapped, but without the energy of her usual put downs.

She keeled sideways on the floor of the temple like a dying cat. Everything was spinning, her energy was utterly sapped. It felt ghastly, like a hangover but ten times worse. All she wanted to do was screw her eyes shut and curl into a ball.

“I fear we are done for the day, and perhaps tomorrow also,” sighed Rasaad, scooping up the drow. She buried her face into his broad chest and groaned with displeasure.

“You will bring me something to eat and rub my shoulders,” Viconia commanded him drowsily. “This is all your fault, bestial male.”

Sarevok grimaced. Another day wasted. The little boy was skipping along from the temple with his almost equally drained father limping after him. The Bhaalspawn turned back inside, contemplating a swim in the temple’s fabled heated pool, only to find Sister Farielle gazing at him with adoring eyes.

Perhaps the day did not have to be a _total_ write-off.

* * *

* * *

_“A rose about her bracelet, a fair and blushing charm,_

_The blood doth drip equally red for thorns against her arm…”_

A terrific banging was coming from inside the coffin as it jolted about on its cart, but the chains and the weight of Bernard’s barrels held it firm.

“I don’t think Jaheira appreciates our poetry,” Coran noted. Anomen bit his lip. “We can only try to bring her back. Were you two…?”

“No!” the knight said hastily. He missed out the part about how he had wanted to be, and his failed attempts to make it happen, but the elf took all that as a given.

Coran was perched on the edge of a wooden keg watching golden fields of barley roll idly by. It was a nice day for a cart ride. The sun hung lazily in the sky, the motion of the cart raised a pleasant cooling breeze and there was not a sound for miles save the chirruping of birds and insects.

He fingered the side of his auburn hair he wore long, mulling over getting it cut. No need to ask Bhaal his opinion. Freya had never made any bones about how ridiculous she thought Coran’s hair was and though the reformed Bhaal was slightly less free with his opinions, the way his canine eyes occasionally winced at it told Coran that his view had not altered much.

“Perhaps saving Jaheira from the clutches of undeath will change her mind about you?” Coran suggested brightly. Anomen allowed himself a small smile, but shook his head. That was no more than wishful thinking. “And if not,” Coran went on, “There’s always me!”

“I should sooner have my gallbladder removed with an oyster fork.”

“I meant me for Jaheira,” Coran corrected him brightly. Anomen looked at the elf appraisingly.

“I don’t see it,” he told him bluntly, “But by all means, try. Her beatings are rather endearing to watch when inflicted upon somebody else.”

The cart hit a sudden bump in the road, sending Coran toppling from one barrel of Nashkel Taverns and onto another with a thud. The elf sat up rubbing his bruised flank, which Anomen thought served him right.

“Besides which, you cannot seriously think to lie with the mother after having shared intimacy with the daughter!” he chided the other man.

“I can and I have. Frequently.”

“But jesting aside, and speaking of the daughter…” Anomen muttered, lowering his voice with a wary eye on the coffin, “I am not eager to explain to Jaheira what happened to Arowan.”

The cart rattled on across the plains of Amn and as the long, tedious day progressed the two men found themselves dipping into the kegs of Nashkel Taverns Bespoke Hand-Crafted Ale. Since ladies and romance happened to be a favourite subject for both of them, Coran and Anomen found they had plenty to talk about, though Bernard was privately of the opinion that it might be a blessing for women everywhere if Lord Firkraag failed to show up and the Shadow Dragon gobbled down the pair of them.

* * *

* * *

“Oh, yes! Just like that! Harder!”

Harder? Really? Suit yourself Farielle. Sarevok obliged and this was the point at which she really started howling. He was prepared to bet that those blasted elves, who could undoubtedly hear every moan and pant from the next room, weren’t so grateful to him for bringing them here anymore.

Sister Farielle was bent over her own lectern with her robes bunched up about her hips demonstrating loudly to the population of Saradush that their Hero was perfectly capable of performing _thank you very much._

Her hair was spilling down, flicking with every thrust and her face flushed with pleasure. With one hand on her breast and the other holding her waist steady, Sarevok felt well and truly alive again. Alive and back at the top of his game.

To hell with Arowan and to hell with Bhaal! To hell with Freya and all the rest of them! Whether it was as the Lord of Murder in his own right or merely the most powerful demi-god who ever lived, Sarevok Anchev was damn well going to exist.

He ground into the back of her, legs tensing and teeth clenched, until just as he was about to come, he pulled out. Sister Farielle turned back over the lectern, dishevelled and slightly put out.

“Not a good idea,” Sarevok panted, “To father more Bhaalspawn.”

“You can trust me you know,” she pouted. “I know my fertility potions.”

Sarevok flopped down on a pew, and she lifted his legs so that she could slip under them. With one hand she began to trace little circles over the head of his cock while stroking his shaft with the other. With a low moan he closed his eyes and relaxed into her touch. He had been so close already that it was over in less than a minute.

Damn it was good to be the Hero. He was starting to understand why Freya had grown so attached to Baldur’s Gate. Well that was _her_ city. Saradush was his.

He didn’t bother to move or open his eyes while Farielle licked the cum from his abs nor even put his clothes back on until an impressed-looking elf brought him his ale and a stack of ribs.

“What about tomorrow?” Sister Farielle asked, leaning over him and pressing her arms together to make her chest appear fuller.

“Tomorrow I rid the city of Gromnir,” he stated confidently, “If I can find a way to get to the wretched coward.”

“It could be that the main sewer system and the one running from the castle aren’t directly connected. It belongs to an older part of the city,” Farielle replied. She pulled a little silver key from her belt. “There is an abandoned jail that used to be part of the castle dungeon. It may be possible to get in that way, though I cannot be certain.”

Sarevok snatched up the key, golden eyes gleaming.

“But they say there are vampires down there…”

“Vampires do not concern me,” Sarevok replied. He rose to his feet, ready to stride to the Tankard Tree and inform his party. “Thank you Farielle. Perhaps we will meet again when Gromnir has fallen.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she smiled, rolling over on the pew and fluttering her lashes.

* * *

* * *

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry about what happened to Safana…” Anomen drawled drunkenly. “And for sleeping with her.”

“Don’t be, I’d have done the same,” Coran reassured him. “And did, regularly.”

“Just how many women have you lain with?” the young knight asked, hovering between horrified and awestruck.

“Depends what you count as sleeping with,” Coran hiccupped, spilling some of his ale, “And who you count as a woman. I mean take Freya. If Freya was really Bhaal the whole time and Bhaal was Freya then did I sleep with a woman? Or did I sleep with a man? I mean not that it matters, I’m the last person to be prudish about these things, but that’s why numbers like that are a bit complicated. You know?”

“Mine’s not complicated,” said Anomen glumly. “One.”

“How old are you?”

“Barely of age.”

“Well then, you’re off to a promising start!” Coran beamed encouragingly, “I didn’t get as far as one until my late nineties! You’re beating the Hero of Baldur’s Gate too. She had the same number at your age but unlike Safana, Jessa Vai was… what’s a polite way of putting this…?”

Anomen laughed, attempted to take a gulp of ale and missed his mouth. This only made both men laugh harder.

“What about you Bernard?” Anomen hollered to the man at the reigns, feeling considerably better about himself.

From the way the squires talked in the Order, it would seem that every man had lost his virginity by seventeen and from then on seduced a different woman every other week. It was only now starting to occur to him that they may, conceivably, have been breaking their code of chivalry not by philandering but by lying through their teeth.

“I hate being the designated driver,” Bernard sighed. He flicked the reigns half-heartedly, miserably sober.

Coran closed his eyes and lounged back against a beer barrel, his auburn hair shining in the friendly glow of the setting sun.

“We could stop here,” he suggested. “Have a drink or two with us before bed?”

“Nope, Elminster was quite clear, we’re not stopping till we get to Umar,” Bernard yawned. “It’s an all-nighter for old Bernie here. But you two feel free to sleep on the barrels. I’ve a feeling you’ll need it to clear some of that grog from your systems. Braver men than me to face that dragon with hangovers.”

“We cannot take out a dragon, drunk or sober,” Anomen pointed out. “It’s Firkraag’s battle or else I must attempt to sneak Jaheira’s coffin past the Shadow Dragon, which is as good as suicide anyway.”

“I weren’t talking about facing Firkraag or the Shadow Dragon with your hangovers,” Bernard replied darkly. “I were talking about the real dragon. _Her._ ”

The coffin gave another indignant judder. Anomen suspected that their captive had fallen asleep in the heat of the day, or whatever equivalent of sleep vampires indulged in. Yet now as nightfall approached she was waking up as belligerent as ever.

* * *

* * *

Rasaad palmed Farielle’s tiny key and flicked it over with his thumb.

“It is good that your new… ah… friend has found an alternative way for us to enter Gromnir’s castle but Viconia will not be able to do anything until dawn at the earliest. She is most fatigued. When I suggested that she come down to the bar for dinner she suggested that I… well I will not repeat her suggestion. It did not sound in keeping with the hygiene practises we were taught at the monastery.”

“We could always go without her,” Sarevok suggested.

“I do not think that wise, my friend,” Rasaad cautioned. “We do not know how many fellow Bhaalspawn this Gromnir has gathered to his cause or their strength. To rush in without a healer for the sake of a day would be foolhardy in the extreme.”

Sarevok made a frustrated noise and fingered the hilt of his father’s sword. Lying with Farielle had reenergised him (at least after he had snapped out of the after-glow stage) and now he was in the mood to fight something.

“This is the third time that you have referred to me as your friend,” Sarevok noted, “Do you imagine that we are truly friends or is it just a misdirected figure of speech?”

Rasaad shrugged calmly. He was bulkier than Sarevok in terms of raw muscle but half-a-head shorter. Skilled but somewhat lacking in raw aggression. The monk wondered which of them would win in a sparring wrestle and put it in mind to find out at some point, but first he had to answer Sarevok’s question.

“For my part we are friends,” the monk said simply. “We are comrades in arms and we both fight to protect the innocents caught up in this nightmare, whether you choose to admit that to yourself or not. If this does not qualify as friendship, what does?”

“Liking each other is usually considered a prerequisite.”

“Prerequisite is it? I must confess, your manner of conversation surprises me, Sarevok,” Rasaad remarked lightly. “From Freya’s description I had expected, if you will pardon me, a mindless thug. Yet your words, while sparing, are always considered.”

“ _Freya_ was the mindless thug. Your friendship with her has truly blinded you if you believe otherwise,” Sarevok replied sourly. There was too much truth in this for the monk to dispute, but out of loyalty to the dead he said nothing. “It is odd that you consider us both your friends. My friendship and Freya’s ought to be mutually exclusive.”

“In some ways I find many similarities between the two of you as comrades,” Rasaad observed mildly. “Though you are a great deal more polite and have a more modest ego.”

“I do not recognise either description of myself,” Sarevok replied suspiciously. “Are you risking a poorly construed attempt at humour?”

“I rarely attempt humour. I have been told many times that I am ungifted at it,” he replied. “But you mistake my meaning. I was not implying that I believe your mode of addressing people is intended to be well-mannered. I merely meant that you are capable of finishing a sentence without cursing, belching or graphically describing acts of a sexual nature.”

Sarevok laughed throatily.

“For instance,” Rasaad went on, “Had Freya just left Farielle’s temple I would currently be being treated to a blow by blow account. Even if nothing happened between them, no amount of trying to explain how little I wanted to know would have dissuaded her from disseminating all of her fantasies in excruciating detail.”

“Is that really what she was like?”

“You knew her!”

“Only as an enemy. At a distance. I had imagined her to be a ruthless and cunning siren to have foiled my carefully laid plans for the Iron Throne.”

“Cunning? That must have come as quite a shock when she joined you in the Abyss,” Rasaad smiled. “But tell me, why the interest in a long dead enemy after all this time?”

“I was there at the Twofold Temple,” Sarevok recalled. “For a few brief minutes I was part of the summoned Bhaal. I remember seeing you there. We were all separate, all the dead Bhaalspawn, like lumps of clay squashed together. But if father comes back permanently we will not stay separated like that, I could sense it. The longer we are together the deeper we will merge until there will no longer be any distinction between where Sarevok ends and Freya begins. This is to be my fate in the end, for I see no way to evade it.”

He glared around the bar as though each of the patrons were personally responsible for his inescapable future melding with Freya and the rest of them. Far from being intimidated, the commoners of Saradush beamed at their Hero as he caught their eye. A few ventured a friendly wave. Sarevok made a grumpy noise in the back of his throat, like a Persian being stroked the wrong way.

“Unless Arowan succeeds,” Rasaad pointed out, “In which case instead of rising as a reformed god you will become a sort of divine explosive.”

Sarevok’s golden eyes narrowed.

“Your critics were correct. You are not gifted in the comedic arts.”

“It was not intended as a joke,” replied Rasaad, “Merely a statement of fact. I shall leave you to your thoughts. I must bring Viconia her supper, lest she follow through with her repeated threats to geld me. I pointed out to her that doing so would only assist me in better compliance with the monastic way of life, but I admit that I was bluffing.”


	12. Gromnir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Update on Zhenta's General Wellbeing:**
> 
> Some of you may have noticed I've been slow to update my story or even read other people's lately. Don't worry- Covid hasn't got me. As some of you already know I have ongoing problems with my joints and back. About a month ago my jaw swelled shut to the extent that I've been living on an entirely liquid diet. I lost a lot of weight in a short space of time and couldn't really sleep so I've not had the energy to read, write or do very much of anything.
> 
> A couple of weeks ago I started a new job and the same week was diagnosed with spondyloarthritis. This wasn't a total shocker: I've known there was something seriously wrong with my health for over a decade and it's nice to finally have a name for it. It means I no longer need to awkwardly explain my mysterious medical history whenever someone asks me why I'm limping/wearing compression gloves/using a stick.
> 
> Covid in this country pretty much halted all other medical treatment but I have at last been prescribed some naproxen. Still can't eat but it is an effective enough painkiller to allow me to sleep reasonably again which I will settle for, for now. Bugger me, I miss Burger King.
> 
> I'm optimistic about the future (bar the occasional anxiety-wobble) and I do believe that long-term this is something I can handle. I realise this long note might be construed as sympathy fishing, and you know what? IT BLOODY WELL IS! Under the circumstances I reckon I have the right to indulge in a little bit of whining self-pity. But don't worry- it'll pass.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Zhenta

* * *

As the Umar Hills came into view, Coran peered at them in groggy surprise. It was nothing more than a friendly little village of log cabins, the occasional thatched cottage and fields of dozy, grazing sheep. Beyond that was a wood. No great forest like Tethir but the sort of place human parents would bring their toddlers for nature strolls.

"I was expecting something more ominous."

"Sod off and let me die," moaned Anomen, clutching his head.

They rounded a corner and saw the village itself. It was deadly silent, totally deserted and with excellent reason. In the middle of the square was sitting a scarlet dragon. The fountain had been crushed beneath the weight of his scaly belly. He was drumming dagger-like claws over the cobbled ground, leaving deep grooves.

"Nevermind, I take it back. This qualifies as ominous," Coran swallowed.

The elf had fought and defeated a dragon before but that had been with the aid of a full party, one of whom had been the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Besides, that dragon had been considerably smaller than the one he was looking at now. He thought for a moment about summoning Bhaal to his side, but the sort of sacrifice needed to bring him back powerful enough to defeat this monstrosity did not bear thinking about.

"Anomen? Erm… Anomen?"

"What is it?" snapped the knight, sitting up in a clatter of armour with large bags under his eyes. He glared at the dragon. "Firkraag's here. Good."

" _Is_ it good?" Bernard gulped, drawing the reigns. The horses certainly didn't seem to think so and were whinnying anxiously.

"We're about to find out," replied Anomen determinedly.

He jumped down from the cart and stomped over to the dragon, who lowered his scaly head to his level.

"You are late, human, and you reek of ale," hissed Firkraag, "Nothing wrong with a steak and ale pie mind you…"

"I should have rubbed myself with coriander before I came," Anomen sighed, remembering the dragon's loathing of the herb.

"Do not flatter yourself little human. I did not come all this way just for a snack," snorted Firkraag. "You enticed me here with the promise of information more precious than that of my entire spy network combined. I am sure I needn't spell out the consequences for you if it turns out you have lured me so far for nothing."

"Help me to defeat the shadow dragon to the north and I will tell you everything."

Coran nervously jumped down from the cart and moved to join him. He noticed a few of the villagers peering nervously from behind their curtains at the conversation taking place. Bernard shook his head mutely, his hands holding the reigns in a death-grip and his bottom firmly glued to his seat.

"Counter proposition: you tell me everything _now_ and I might not burn your precious cart into a heap of smouldering ashes?" the dragon suggested pleasantly.

Firkraag took a deep breath, so powerful that the men's hair was sucked toward his gaping jaw. A glowing light of angry fire swelled in the dragon's orange neck, an inferno about to blast.

"That sounds reasonable!" squeaked Coran. Anomen nodded with mute ire. It wasn't really as though he had a choice.

Firkraag unleashed his fireball in the direction of the sky. It shot up twenty feet into the air, mushrooming like a gnomish explosive. There were screams from the commoners, whose faces quickly disappeared from the windows. Moments later the slamming of doors suggested that several were hastily escaping out the back entrances to their oh-so-flammable homes.

"Arowan is the Great Evil," Anomen told him. "She is leading an army of undead around Tethir, attempting to wipe out her fellow Bhaalspawn so that she can ascend and claim Bhaal's power for her own. When she does, she will unleash it to destroy all the evilly aligned people in this world in one go."

There was a rush of air as the dragon suddenly shrunk down into his humanoid form. He was a handsome red-headed man in a ruby waistcoat, though something of the reptile remained about his slit amber eyes and angular jaw.

"Arowan?" he hissed, seeming genuinely astonished. "The puny ranger who was with you and the Servant of all Faiths? She has been failing to send me updates for some time… I had assumed that she'd died along with Yoshimo."

"How do you know that Yoshimo is dead?" demanded Anomen.

"A question too idiotic to merit an answer," sneered the draconic spymaster. "As I recall, Arowan begged to spare the life of a troll who was trying to sauté her. Explain to me exactly how it was that she came to take on the role of the Adversary."

"I'd like to know that myself," muttered Coran.

"No, worm! Enough of your games!" Anomen snapped. "I see no possibility of you honouring your word if we give you everything now. We can tell you that and more besides! Skie Silvershield's revival is not all it seems. Few beings in the whole of Faerun could tell you the precise nature of that situation, but we can."

"Arrogant human!" roared Firkraag, rearing. As he did so his neck and spine lengthened so that he was extending from both ends back into dragon form. "I will burn you to a crisp and feast on your shrivelled carcasses!"

"Anomen!" Coran yelled, as Firkraag's scorching breath swept over them. The knight did not flinch. He was staring down the giant lizard, unblinking.

"Then enjoy your _second-rate_ hoard, worm!" Anomen taunted him. "What would the information you hold now look like if it were a regular dragon hoard? A village bank perhaps? The content of a costume jewellery store?"

Firkraag's tail lashed in anger and the fire was once again swelling in his scaly neck.

"Anomen!" Coran yelped frantically, shaking the knight by the arm.

Bernard whimpered and broke, jumping down from the cart and fleeing in panic just like the villagers. The dragon roared so loudly that the ground shook. The cart horses attempted to run too, but got their reigns twisted in a nearby tree, preventing them from going far. Coran had Anomen's arm in a death grip, but the knight did not look away, even as the heat stung his eyes.

The dragon opened his jaws as wide as they would go and an all-encompassing ball of flame began roasting inescapably toward them.

"Crap!" the elf whimpered.

Yet at the last second, Firkraag directed his fireball toward the mayor's house instead, melting it down to the foundations in a vast plume of searing flame.

Without another word to Anomen he took to the wing and flew in the direction of Amaunator's ruined temple, leaving the rubble of the crushed fountain and the scattered embers of the mayor's house behind him.

"Oh fucking hell, now what?" moaned Coran.

"We follow him. Get on the cart!" shouted Anomen, untangling the frightened horses and scooping up the reigns. "Throw off the barrels of ale, it'll go faster!"

"I suppose these poor sods could use a drink after that," the elf noted, eyeing the running figures scattered across the hills. Even the sheep were flocking with them to put distance between themselves and the dragon. They'd be back by nightfall though. The wilds of Amn were no place for unarmed villagers.

* * *

* * *

With Viconia recovered and Farielle's key in their possession, she, Rasaad and Sarevok were finally able to gain entry into Gromnir's castle. On the way they made an interesting discovery.

The undead, whom Farielle had warned them about, set upon the party. Out of curiosity, Viconia found herself testing the extent of her new powers once more. To her great excitement she discovered that she was not only able to Turn Undead, but to bring them under her direct control.

By the time she had used them to clear the lower levels of Gromnir's hideout, her eyes were dancing and her little elfin hands rubbing together with glee.

"I do not see why you are so pleased with yourself," grumbled Sarevok. "We could easily have disposed of these minions without your corpses."

"I do not relish fighting alongside the dead," Rasaad added sternly.

"Idiot males!" Viconia beamed happily. "You are missing the bigger picture. The Adversary's army is entirely composed of undead, that stinking half-orc notwithstanding. If I can bring some of them under my control…"

Both Rasaad and Sarevok looked sceptical.

"You are to consider that the ring she wears grants her all of Eric's expertise," Rasaad cautioned her. "Had he lived, the boy would doubtless have gone down in history as one of the most dangerous necromancers who ever stalked Faerun."

"Overconfidence is often the path to defeat," Sarevok nodded.

Viconia rounded on them, disgusted that her two males would side with each other over her.

"You would know all about that, Sarevok!" she blazed.

"Yes. Yes I would."

With a frustrated groan, Viconia led the way up the last flight of steps to Gromnir's chambers. The half-orc had not noticed their approach, he was too preoccupied with the woman standing before him. Melissan glared defiantly up at the demi-god on his magnificent throne, surrounded by an alliance of his brothers and sisters.

"Your guards threatened me with arrest if I did not come with them!" Melissan was seething. "I do not take kindly to threats Gromnir! What is it you want?"

"Gromnir knows a stranger came to Saradush, pretty Melissan. Gromnir knows who he claims to be. Sarevok Anchev murdered scores of other Bhaalspawn. Tell us, why would pretty Melissan let him into Saradush if she wanted to keep Bhaalspawn safe? Hmmm?"

"You fool Gromnir!" she shrieked. "Sarevok may be our only hope of escaping this siege alive! He foiled Yaga-Shura's plot to blow up the city from beneath. The Hero of Saradush they call him. I _had_ hoped at one point that title would go to you but…"

The half-orc leaned back in his throne, surveying the woman before him with sheer contempt. There was something unsettling about her appearance. At a glance she looked like a young woman with soft rounded features but now, with the opportunity to observe her at his leisure, Sarevok noticed a certain stretched, drawn appearance to her skin.

It put him in mind of the wizards and wealthy nobility of Baldur's Gate who, in a desperate bid to retain their lost youth, would resort to magical anti-aging spells. These worked to a point; extending life and providing a superficial impression of vitality, but they left tell-tale signs to the trained eye. Melissan was old by human standards, perhaps older than her natural life expectancy ought to permit. She was the same woman from the temple of his early years, one of those who had first persuaded him that destroying his rival Bhaalspawn was the way to achieve ascension.

"Gromnir does not care for Heroes. Gromnir knows the truth. We is no idiot! Melissan has brought Sarevok into the city to kill Gromnir, and the rest of us too."

That seemed to be her plan, still, Sarevok noted. Pitching Bhaalspawn at each other's throats was what the cultist had wanted before and was still trying to achieve now. No doubt to bring back their father at their expense.

"You are mad Gromnir!" cried Melissan. "Have I not always aided you and all the other Bhaalspawn? I- I brought you here to protect you. It was your paranoia that brought Yaga-Shura upon us!"

"Mad? Paranoid!" roared Gromnir, looking every inch both. "No! Gromnir finally understands how Melissan lied. Melissan lured Gromnir into a deathtrap! Tell Gromnir where Sarevok Anchev is hiding!"

"Hiding? Sarevok is not hiding!" howled Melissan. "If you were not holed up in this castle, the two of you could have had a meeting when he first arrived!"

This raised a ripple of dark laughter, not only from Gromnir himself but from all of the Bhaalspawn he had surrounded himself with. They were a diverse lot. Humans, dwarves, halflings, elves and drawn from all classes.

"This alliance could help us," Viconia whispered. "Gromnir has the right idea."

"Gromnir will never meet Sarevok," the half-orc sneered. "Gromnir is wise to Melissan's schemes. Melissan means to turn Bhaalspawn against Bhaalspawn until _all_ are dead. Take Melissan away, but watch her closely. Gromnir knows that Melissan lies. Melissan deceives…"

His guards marched the furious Bhaal cultist away, and Gromnir sat back again. He was smirking, stroking his top lip and looking extremely impressed with himself.

The party entered the room fully and Gromnir noticed them for the first time. If he was afraid, he did not show it, though several of his allies were looking at Sarevok and his drow companion in alarm.

"So, the assassin is here," Gromnir rumbled. "Sarevok Anchev has come to kill Gromnir. Heheheh. What fun."


	13. Dragon Wars

The cart crashed through the undergrowth, bouncing so hard over a rotten log that one of the wheels splintered. Ignoring it, Anomen jolted the reigns, forcing the box on wheels onward like a deranged chariot racer. Behind him, Coran was clinging to Jaheira's chained coffin to stop it from bumping around too violently.

They met a convoy of people fleeing the other way who were forced to pitch themselves out of the cart's path. One of them tripped in his haste and sprawled over the trek, forcing Anomen to haul on the reigns and break.

"What are you doing?" cried a bespectacled man wearing the robes of Oghma.

"Did you see a dragon flying this way?" asked Coran.

"Yes we saw it!" panted a cleric, brushing her hair from her face. She was wearing the insignia of the Order of the Radiant Heart but was an archivist not a fighter. "It's digging out the other one, the Shadow Dragon we boarded up after it smashed Amauna's tomb up and killed all those people!"

This was, in truth, an unjust accusation. The tomb had been destroyed by Dorn Il-Khan on Arowan's orders, but since the Shadow Dragon certainly _would_ have killed the archaeologists given the opportunity, this hardly mattered.

"Just get out of the way!" snapped Anomen impatiently.

He jerked the reigns again and forced the protesting cart onward to the ruins of Amaunator's Temple. It was very different from how he remembered it. This was partly because the Shadow Lord's curse was lifted but also because a large proportion of it was now on the surface. The archaeologists had dug the temple up; abandoned little brushes and trowels lay as evidence of their painstaking work.

In a scene that would have made Sir Keldorn weep, a great hole had been clawed into the ground above the Shadow dragon's lair spraying dirt and rocks indiscriminately over everything. Anomen tugged Jaheira's coffin from the cart and propped it up against a nearby tree.

"What do you think Firkraag is doing down there?" breathed Coran, slipping off the cart and cautiously approaching the hole.

He was just about to stick his face over it, when Anomen noticed a tell-tale glow reflecting in the thief's emerald eyes. With a yell, he bunched his armoured fist in the elf's hair and yanked him backward hard. Coran screamed, a horrible ripping noise came from his scalp and when Anomen withdrew his hand it was covered in auburn hairs.

The elf was just turning around to ask Anomen what in the hells he thought he was doing, when the ground erupted beneath him, throwing both men to one side.

In a dazzling burst of embers, Firkraag launched himself from the hole like a firework, looping over in mid-air to direct a flaming blast back down the hole he had come from.

Smoke curled up silently from the rough hole in the ground so that at first they thought that Firkraag had already won. Yet the translucent fumes were taking form and gradually it dawned on them that they were gazing not on smoke, but on the Shadow Dragon itself.

Clawed, icy talons gripped the edge of the hole and it pulled itself out, rearing and hissing at Firkraag like an angry cat. Firkraag responded with another fireball, which the already fleeing horses were not quite quick enough to escape. It ripped through the woods, setting trees alight, their charred, curling branches as twisted as the Shadow Dragon itself.

The fire passed through its insubstantial mass but it screeched nonetheless, seemingly more distressed by the light than by the fire. Then it too took off, launching from all fours like a pouncing cat. It shot toward Firkraag, catching his flank in its jaws and sending both dragons crashing into the trees, toppling dozens of them as they rolled over and over.

"Damn that's something…" Coran murmured wistfully.

"Are you trying to be funny?" growled Anomen.

"I know they're both boy-dragons," the elf sighed, "I'm not blind, but could you imagine seducing the female version of one of those? I mean her thighs alone would be bigger than my entire body!"

The knight could think of no response to this. Meanwhile the dragons had recovered and taken off once more.

Firkraag and the Shadow Dragon climbed higher and higher, spiralling each other in a blur of wings and scales. Without warning colossal explosions of flames erupted in all directions. Both creatures were now locked in a desperate bid for survival.

"Get Jaheira!" Anomen whispered.

Without taking their eyes from the warring dragons, they each lifted one end of her coffin, made all the heavier by the chains binding it, and carried her toward the hole.

"Don't you want to stay and watch the fight?" breathed Coran, awestruck.

"Supposing Firkraag loses, you idiot elf?" Anomen panted. "Hells, supposing he wins! There's an even chance he'll kill us as soon as we've told him what we know. Now move!"

Only they found they had no option but to watch, for they had no way to climb into the hole. It was a forty foot vertical drop, impassable without the aid of rope or wings and the other entrances had already been blocked off by the archaeologists. They sat with their legs dangling over the hole and waited, like small boys watching a dog fight.

The Shadow Dragon smacked its wing into Firkraag's scaly face, but he retaliated with a lash of his tail, ripping a large tear in the dark wing. They were almost an even match except that the sun was rising ever higher in the sky and this favoured Firkraag. He soared, gaining ten feet over his rival and blasted flame down over him.

As it writhed in pain, its dark scaled flank squirming this way and that, Firkraag bore down abruptly and got a grip around its neck. The Shadow Dragon struggled but it was over. Firkraag held on like a terrier, shaking and thrashing and at last, with a disturbing crunch, the Shadow Dragon stopped moving.

Firkraag released it and it fell to the ground with a resounding crash. He glared at it disdainfully from a height and then landed beside it. Calmly he produced a deadly-sharp claw and began, painstakingly to slice, starting from the ruined neck and working his way down the belly.

"Come on," muttered Anomen.

They scampered through the smouldering trees to Firkraag who was looking pleased with himself as only a dragon can.

"Wh- what are you doing?" Coran gulped.

"I am skinning him. What does it look like?" Firkraag replied smoothly.

"What in Hanali's name for?" moaned the elf, staring on in morbid fascination. Ever since he had learned how Freya had died, he'd had a particular aversion to the concept of skinning _anything._ He'd only even donned adventurer's leathers again with some reluctance.

"So that you can make armour. Obviously," Firkraag hissed. "I do not see why you find this so shocking, elf. Do not think me ignorant of the fact that you once assisted the Hero of Baldur's Gate in doing the exact same thing to one of my kind."

"No I'm not… I wasn't…" Coran pushed his hair back. His scalp was still aching from where Anomen had yanked it. "It's just that I'm a little surprised that you do it to each other," he finished lamely.

Firkraag made a neat little ring about the dead dragon's throat and with one talon grabbing the neck, he began to pull at the skin with his back legs. It was a lot easier now that he was working on the level underneath the scales but it still made a hideous noise. Coran watched, if only to remind himself that he was looking at a reptilian hide and not yellow fur.

"Under normal circumstances we wouldn't," Firkraag replied testily, "But these are not normal circumstances, are they? If a suit or two of dragonhide armour will aid the Servant of all Faiths and her followers then so be it. In the end the only dragon hide I'm really interested in saving is my own."

"And if Arowan succeeds in annihilating all evil, you will perish along with the rest of them," sneered Anomen, disgusted. "You are helping us then?"

"After I roast one of you alive to teach you a lesson. I haven't decided who yet," replied Firkraag. Anomen could not tell whether he was joking or not.

Still if the wyrm wished to make him a present of dragonhide he wasn't about to complain. He had only ever seen one suit of real dragonskin armour, and had in fact rejected it. This was on the basis that it had once belonged to Freya and was tailored to her excessively large cleavage. Keldorn had it instead. He wondered if Sir Keldorn was wearing it still, to lead the Order into Tethir.

On a whim, he shared this fact with Firkraag and Coran.

"I'm not sure Freya would have relished the idea of a paladin wearing her armour," Coran remarked. "But at least he's not a bard."

"What did the Hero of Baldur's Gate have against _bards?_ " Anomen asked, but Firkraag was not interested.

"The answer to that question is of no use to me. I already know the Hero of Baldur's Gate inside and out!" he snarled.

Coran winced and Firkraag smiled a little, his pointed fangs protruding wickedly over his lower jaw.

"I'm sorry, elf, was that insensitive? I was not trying to make a joke about the unfortunate state she ended up in. I merely meant that Freya Silvershield was about as subtle as a gnomish demolition squad. I believe I already know everything there is to know about her."

"Perhaps not everything," Coran sighed. He pulled out the Girdle of Femininity and dipped it into the Shadow Dragon's blood. At once the dark ooze seeped into Bhaal's gem in the centre, making it glow with a black flame. This was a sacrifice that ought to produce an effect. Coran braced himself and yelled, "Bhaal!"

There was a sudden silence as though every bird in the forest had dropped dead at once. Even the leaves ceased their rustling, and Coran was gripped with a horrible sense of existential dread. Anomen turned pale and even Firkraag seemed to feel it. He shuffled backward on his four talons uneasily.

Then out from between the trees emerged the wolf. Coran had grown so used to seeing this avatar of Bhaal as a tiny chihuahua that he had forgotten how unpleasant it actually was when all the details were magnified. Standing as tall as the trees themselves he could even make out the outline of its heart pulsating unpleasantly between knots of fleshless muscle.

It's grey, bulging eyes swivelled this way and that, lighting upon Firkraag, who recoiled in disgust and no small amount of fear.

Bhaal, however, leaped on all fours and wagged his slimy blood-dripping tail like an excited hell-puppy. He looked especially pleased to be face to face with Firkraag.

AWESOME CORAN! YOU FOUND US ANOTHER DRAGON! I'VE NOT SLAIN A DRAGON IN _AGES…_

Despite having lived out scores of short Bhaalspawn lives, he had only ever slain one dragon. Adventuring with Coran had been, without doubt, the most fun that any of Bhaal's unfortunate offspring had ever managed to achieve. Even the original mortal Bhaal could get enthused at the prospect of taking out a fire dragon.

"No cause for that!" replied Firkraag through gritted teeth. "I suppose I can skip incinerating one of you gentlemen on this occasion."

HAVE A GO, I DON'T MIND.

Firkraag weighed up his chances against the partially reformed god. The death of the Shadow Dragon was a magnificent sacrifice and, in this manifestation, Bhaal was easily twenty feet tall. He had not displayed any of his powers yet, but the dragon had to assume that he had some. Add to that that poor Firkraag was already worn out from battling the other dragon and he decided not to risk it.

"I have no wish to fight you," Firkraag said repressively. "We can resolve this peacefully I am sure."

AWW COME ON DRAGON, DON'T BE LIKE THAT!

Bhaal whined and his ears drooped in disappointment. The Shadow Dragon was the best sacrifice he was ever likely to get. This was the strongest he would be coming back until he ascended properly and he was itching to try out his powers on such a mighty foe.

"Oh yes… I know your kind," Firkraag's eyes narrowed. "Adventurers who see a dragon and _automatically_ think 'slay him!' I daresay you think that is what dragons are _for._ "

NOT ALWAYS!

"Let me guess," Firkraag sneered, "You 'can't be a racist,' some of your best friends are dragons?"

I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT WHEN I WAS SIRING THE BHAALSPAWN I HAPPENED TO MEET A DRAGON IN THE EMPLOY OF ONE OF OUR SOUTHERN TEMPLES AND IT NEVER OCCURRED TO ME TO SLAY _HER_. BIGGEST ARSE I'VE EVER SEEN! SHE TOOK A BIT OF A SHINE TO ME TOO…

"I am so jealous right now," moaned Coran.

AMELYSSAN WASN'T HAPPY, MIND. SACRIFICING A DRAGON WHELP IS EASIER SAID THAN DONE BUT I TOLD HER: YOU'RE THE PRIESTESS, YOU FIX IT!

"Was she in dragon form at the time or…" Coran began enviously.

" _That's_ your question?" snapped Firkraag repressively. He turned back eagerly to Bhaal. "Who's Amelyssan?"

MY HIGH PRIESTESS. HECK OF A MORTAL BUT BUGGER ME SHE HAS A TEMPER ON HER. ANYWAY, SHE SAID IF I COULDN'T KEEP MY DICK IN MY PANTS SHE'D _FIX ME_ SO I CALLED IT OFF WITH THE DRAGONESS.

There was an awkward pause while everybody absorbed this mental image.

"What in the hells is going on?" screamed Anomen suddenly.

Dragon, deity and elf turned to look at him having all forgotten he was there. The knight had backed into a tree and was shivering from head to foot with god-terror, his sword shaking in Bhaal's direction. There was a small puddle forming at the base of his armour. Bhaal beamed at it proudly.

LOOK! I MADE A MORTAL PISS HIMSELF! I'VE STILL GOT IT!

"This is Bhaal," explained Coran delicately. "Or most of him anyway. When the Bhaalspawn die they go to the Abyss to reintegrate into their father. I was pretty freaked out too at first, but Freya is still in there. So are all the Bhaalspawn. He has all of their memories. When the last Bhaalspawn dies, he's coming back."

"Intriguing," whispered Firkraag, his eyes lighting up with greed at the sight of this endless treasury of information. "Indulge me Lord of Murder, for I have so many questions…"

"No!" yelped Anomen in an angry shout mixed with a petrified scream. "I'll give you your information, dragon, and then you can go. I can't deal with both of you!"

He was almost in the grip of god-terror now, eyes screwed shut and fingers wrenching at his beard. This was an improvement on the last time he had come face to face with Bhaal, an encounter which had lasted only seconds. At the Twofold Temple, he had taken one look at the skinless wolf and run away screaming. The shock of standing in the presence of deities tended to lose its potency once you got used to it.

"Skie Silvershield's empty shell has been possessed by Bodhi," Anomen babbled. "She made herself a phylactery out of Freya's skin. The only way to stop her is to either get the coat off Skie or return Skie's real soul to her body."

BODHI MADE A PHYLACTERY OUT OF _ME?_

Bhaal's rage made the entire hill tremble and an acrid ring of acid burned the ground beneath his paws.

SHE HAD BEST PRAY THAT SHE MEETS HER FINAL END BEFORE I AM FULLY RESTORED, OTHERWISE HER AFTERLIFE IS GOING TO BE EVEN MORE UNPLEASANT THAN THE ONE I AM CURRENTLY TREATING HER BROTHER TO.

Coran and Irenicus both hailed from the Forest of Tethir, though Coran had not spent a great deal of time in the elf capital itself. As a young man, he had been caught inscribing his initials and his crush of the hour's into the Tree of Life. They kept an oppressively close watch on him after that. Even so, Coran was still an elf and the idea of one of his own kind falling under the jurisdiction of a human deity sat uncomfortably with him.

"I would have thought that the Seldarine would want Irenicus to answer to them," Coran frowned.

THE SELDARINE CAN WAIT THEIR TURN. IRENICUS DIED IN MY DOMAIN AND THERE HE'LL STAY, UNTIL I DECIDE OTHERWISE.

"When will that be?"

DUNNO. COULD BE A WHILE. NOBODY HAS EVER CHEESED ME OFF THIS MUCH BEFORE.

The fleshless wolf sat on its haunches, crushing several saplings and scratched its ear with its hindleg.

"And Arowan?" Firkraag pressed eagerly.

"Arowan…" Anomen screwed his eyes shut but the image of the flayed wolf was burned onto his retinas. "Arowan is my fault. I gave her numbing potions. I thought I was helping but I made everything worse."

Bhaal looked shocked. Having no skin, and therefore no eyelids his eyes were permanently wide and so always appeared a bit surprised. Yet now he seemed to mean it. In one of his lives, as Eric, he had been addicted to numbing potions and was well aware of their effects. He had also known Arowan in three of them: as Freya, Imoen and Eric.

WHY WOULD YOU DO SUCH A THING?

"She'd lost control," Anomen murmured, utterly ashamed of himself. "First she lost Khalid and then she had to murder Mazzy to stop the Shadow Lord, she found herself working for Irenicus and you…" He gestured at Firkraag. "She murdered Imoen to save Yoshimo…"

YES, I REMEMBER THAT PART VIVIDLY.

"…only for him to die anyway. It broke her. Jaheira's death was the final straw. An avatar of Bhaal, the Slayer, broke out of her and murdered a street full of innocent people. Commoners and their children… when she came back to her senses, she tried to end her own life to prevent it from happening again."

Coran buried his head into his hands and even Bhaal hung his head a little. Firkraag, however was watching Anomen with a ravenous curiosity.

"I gave her numbing potions to keep the slayer at bay until we could work out what to do with her," Anomen moaned. "Dorn and his master tricked me into thinking it was my own idea, but I see now that it was all their doing. They planned this all along. Arowan's only remaining aim, the last thing she cared about, was stopping the evil. Evil in general and Bhaal specifically."

WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO?

Coran gave Bhaal a look, and the god ceased heckling.

"When she woke up numb, she carried on pursuing that aim and nothing will ever deflect her from it now," the knight groaned. "Unless Viconia can prevent it she will harvest all the divine essence from her brothers and sisters and then detonate it. Detonate _you_ Bhaal, to destroy every evilly aligned person in the world all at once."

There was a long silence.

"Alright Firkraag. You can go now," Coran muttered. He did not raise his head from his arms but he sounded like he had a sudden cold. "We gave you what you wanted."

"But…" the dragon was gazing longingly at Bhaal. He might never have the chance to question a god again. On the other hand he was mindful that he had a chance to _fight_ a god here too. Perhaps discretion was the better part of valour…

YOU HEARD THE ELF. GO.

Reluctantly, but satisfied with his haul, Firkraag flexed his vast red wings and took off into the afternoon sky headed for home. No doubt he would coil himself around his latest hoard of information and be content with it for some time to come.

Anomen clumped to a dry patch of forest and slumped down, near to Coran. The elf had enjoyed a short but intense friendship with the ranger during the siege of Dragonspear and for all his shallow philandering it was clear that her fall had affected him just like Freya's and Safana's before her.

Bhaal was watching Firkraag's scaly body disappear into a small red speck almost as regretfully as the dragon itself. Throughout the whole conversation he had been secretly hoping that the lizard might give him an excuse to attack. Bhaal was, at heart, a bit of a brute. He turned to Anomen.

YOU, SIR, ARE AN IDIOT.

Anomen raised his head, throat dry, to find himself staring down the muzzle of a twenty-foot hell hound. The muscles of its neck slid over each other as it panted and a string of drool large enough to drown a pig was dangling from its chops. Its breath was so pungent that he struggled not to pass out.

"I swear to Helm by the time this is over the Order are going to have to lock me in a room with padded walls."

"He's normally smaller than this," Coran told him reassuringly. "And you're in no position to be calling anybody an idiot, Bhaal. You started all this trouble by spawning legions of demigods. I'll never win Father of the Year myself, but even _I_ can see that it was a bloody irresponsible thing to do."

WATCH YOURSELF MORTAL.

Suddenly Anomen remembered why it was they had come in the first place. He ran back wildly in the direction of the temple, but Jaheira's coffin was quite safe, still chained shut and propped up near the dragon burrow.

Bhaal padded along curiously behind him and sniffed at it with his fleshless snout.

WHAT'S IN THE BOX?


	14. Rivalry

Bhaal landed on the floor of the temple with a soft thump, Jaheira’s coffin clasped between his teeth and the two men gripping his back. Coran had ridden Freya in wolf-form from time to time, whenever they’d needed to get somewhere quickly. Back then there had been soft golden fur to hang on to. Now the only grip he could get was by wrapping his fingers around individual muscles.

“Are you sure that doesn’t hurt?” he asked, feeling a bit sick.

NAH, AVATARS ARE JUST A… WHAT’S THE WORD? PERSONIFICATION.

“Stop talking Bhaal! You’re crushing Jaheira!” Anomen snapped.

The giant dog crossed his eyes to look at the box in his muzzle. It was, indeed, splintering with every word. Within the Shadow Dragon’s ruined lair was an abundance of gold and gems, far more than Coran could easily carry. Anomen turned his nose up a little but, as the elf pointed out, they would need to reequip Jaheira once she was revived. Not to mention pay to have their dragon scales forged into useful armour.

Inside the temple was pitch black, but Bhaal concentrated and his paws burst into flames, lighting their path with sparkling hellfire. As they approached the statue, he found himself having to squeeze flatter and lower through ever-narrower spaces until they reached a trap floor guarding the way to it.

“We worked this out before, you have to step on the letters to spell Amaunator,” said Anomen.

Bhaal led the way, not getting three steps before the floor erupted into flames.

“I just told you how to do it!” howled Anomen.

YEAH, BUT NOT HOW TO SPELL IT! AH, BUGGER THIS.

Bhaal padded across the floor, ignoring the raging trap-fire and deposited Jaheira on the other side.

The floor exploded into a solid wall of fire, tongues of flame dancing over the cavern roof. As the angry flames settled down, to Anomen’s relief the coffin was leaning on the opposite wall, unhurt. Bhaal was too large to squeeze through the final archway to the statue and settled himself down to watch while the men hopped from letter to letter.

“Here goes nothing,” muttered Coran. He unlocked the chains holding the coffin closed and Anomen hauled Jaheira’s stiff body out. Since it was the middle of the day she was rigidly unresponsive.

The blue marble statue stood with its eyes blazing with light just as they had last seen it. Carefully, he placed Jaheira into its waiting arms. She seemed peculiarly frail like this, her legs dangling and her head drooping back. With the indignant fury that normally propelled her gone, it was almost as though the druid had shrunk.

They waited.

“N- nothing is happening,” Anomen gasped in stunned disbelief. “She was meant to come back…”

“The heart!” Coran prompted, “It needs Bodhi’s heart.”

“Where is it?” asked Anomen urgently.

“I thought you had it!”

Thief and knight stared at each other in agony. Neither man had remembered to bring Bodhi’s rotten heart with them to reverse Jaheira’s vampirism. Now they faced the stark choice of hauling Jaheira in her coffin all the way to Athkatla and back, or risking leaving her here. Unless…

“Bhaal?” Coran asked weakly.

AWW COME ON. SERIOUSLY? YOU KNOW HOW MUCH POWER THAT’S GOING TO DRAIN? THAT SHADOW DRAGON SACRIFICE COULD HAVE KEPT ME GOING FOR DAYS!

“Can you do it or not, abomination?” Anomen asked between gritted teeth. He loathed the notion of asking the Lord of Murder for anything but…

NOT IF YOU ASK LIKE THAT.

“Fine. _Please,_ ” replied Anomen as sweetly as he could manage.

NO, I MEAN YOU NEED TO PHRASE IT AS A PRAYER. SORRY. THAT’S JUST HOW IT WORKS.

“You cannot be serious!” Anomen yelped. “I’m not praying to Bhaal, Helm will send me to the hells! Coran, you do it!”

“Yes, because the Seldarine will like it so much better,” Coran replied sarcastically, but there really wasn’t much choice. He flicked his hair out of his eyes on the side it grew long. As he did so he made up his mind that it was time to cut it. It was getting on his nerves.

He knelt down awkwardly, casting an apologetic glance at the runes to the Sun Lord whose temple he was about to defile.

“Mighty Bhaal, Lord of Murder, please grant us Bodhi’s heart at your earliest convenience,” he said quickly as though trying to spit a sour taste from his mouth. Bhaal waited expectantly, his flat pink tongue lolling in and out. Coran groaned. “ _Amen._ ”

Bhaal concentrated. He was trying to close his eyes to do so, which was disconcerting because without eyelids this was physically impossible. All he was doing was squeezing them with his cheek muscles making them pop like a pair of grapes about to burst.

Something appeared, black and full of tubes before his eyes. He held out his open palms and it settled into his hands. He had never been so delighted to behold something so grotesque.

“I’ve got it!” he cried excitedly. “I’ve got the heart!”

“Yes!” exclaimed Anomen, seizing it from him and rushing to place it on the altar beside Jaheira.

YOU’RE WELCOME!

Bhaal groaned sarcastically, collapsing sideways with exhaustion. This caused him to land on the trap floor again which erupted in violent flames. For once the god popped out of existence without a word of protest.

“Don’t worry, dying just sends him back to the Abyss,” Coran panted, joining Anomen at the altar. “I’ll be able to summon him back later.”

“I wasn’t worried,” replied the knight truthfully, placing the heart into Jaheira’s hands.

The statue began to glow and they took a step back. Within moments her body was engulfed in a blinding white light, so intense that they had to shield their eyes from it. Jaheira took a sudden breath and screamed, a long piercing cry.

Her wail went on and on, while her body tensed and arched. Anomen began to doubt what he had done, but finally both her cries and the light faded and she toppled from the statue’s arms, landing face down on the floor.

“Jaheira?” he asked uncertainly, kneeling down to help her up.

Her eyes blinked tiredly back at him, but they were her own eyes once more. Her skin colour had returned and there was no sign of the pointy little fangs when she opened her mouth to speak.

“Anomen? You… you have saved me. I am in your debt.”

“You are not,” he said, and immediately told her what had happened to Arowan and his own role in it. Jaheira listened in silence throughout his story, saying nothing. By the time he had finished, her jaw was set and resolute.

“I cannot judge,” she replied. “Not after what I myself have been for months- an unnatural wraith in the service of Bodhi. Nevertheless, Arowan cannot be allowed to commit genocide. She must be destroyed. It is the only way.” She took a shuddering breath and forced back the tears that were starting to trickle down her face. “It is the only way,” she repeated.

She began to force her aching body reluctantly to its feet. Every movement seemed to cause her pain and her words were heavy with grief.

“Could we not try to cure her?” Coran protested. He had been sure that in Jaheira, if no one else, he would have an ally in this. “She was weaned from numbing potions once before, we could do it again.”

But Jaheira shook her head.

“I could imagine nothing crueller,” she replied decisively. “You knew Arowan as well as anyone Coran. Do you truly suppose that she could learn to live with what she has already done, never mind what she might do by the time we stop her?”

Coran’s face darkened and he fell silent for a while. Yet there was no denying that Jaheira was right. There was no future for Arrow. Not now.

They found themselves limping to the bottom of the dragon hole and gazing up, but with a druid in their party this no longer posed an insurmountable obstacle. At her summoning, roots forced their way through the walls of the cavern providing footholds, and the party were able to struggle their way to the surface.

“Forgive me, my lady,” sighed Anomen when they finally reached daylight.

“I do,” replied Jaheira formally. “I am glad that you risked so much to come for me.”

“I could do no other. Your loss would have been unbearable to me Jaheira,” he replied earnestly, leaning forward a little.

She raised an eyebrow and a hint of amusement glimmered through her pain.

“This does not mean that I have changed my mind about romancing you, Anomen,” she told him archly.

“Never mind Anomen, plenty of fish in the sea!” Coran chipped in brightly. “And if I may say so Jaheira, you are looking exceptionally well following your brush with death. If you would like someone to remind you of the delights of being alive…”

“Only if the delight you are offering me is _food_ ,” Jaheira said firmly.

There was a grim silence.

“Er… no,” confessed Coran. “We didn’t bring any food.”

“Or bedding,” added Anomen. “And the dragons burned the horses. We’re going to have to walk back to the village tonight.”

Jaheira pulled a face that seemed to age her a hundred years. She rose wearily and set out clumping one foot in front of the other like they were made of lead. Anomen and Coran exchanged a glance. A flicker of rivalry passed between them and both men hastened forward to speak at once.

“You have been through a terrible ordeal, my lady. Pray, let me carry you on my back to Umar!” Anomen offered gallantly.

“But rest a moment before we go,” offered Coran. “I have some skill as a forager and we have all eaten worse than barbequed horse. Let me see what I can rustle up for you.”

Jaheira rolled her eyes, but she was far to drained to turn down their offers of assistance.

* * *

* * *

“Please, you must listen to me!” Rasaad implored the Bhaalspawn mage before him, but the little woman continued to slash wildly with her knife. He was dodging and weaving out of the way as best he could, but at some point he would have no choice but to land a blow.

Gromnir was already dead, along with most of his followers. He refused to listen or compromise, so convinced of Melissan’s perfidy that he and his followers had nothing to lose by fighting to the bitter end.

“Stop this madness, you are doing Arowan’s work for her!” the monk bleated, but in vain.

He recognized the approaching incantation as Imprisonment, a curse which the party had no means to dispel. Reluctantly he was forced to land a blow to her windpipe to cease her spell. He had hoped to simply wound her but Sarevok, having also seen her intent, hit her on the head with the flat of his sword at exactly the same moment and she exploded in golden dust.

“Arowan’s and Melissan’s!” Viconia groaned. “We have served both of their wretched purposes here today. At this rate they will succeed in gathering our father’s essence. To use it or to bring him back… Though I suppose Bhaal’s return would not be so bad.”

“What are you saying?” gasped Rasaad.

“From our point of view at least,” Viconia corrected reasonably. “Bhaal’s revival presents no practical problems.”

“No practical problems? Viconia, he is the god of murder!”

“Someone has to be.”

Her silver hair was spilling down over her cross, angular face. Rasaad was glowering darkly from under his collage of tattoos. Normally Sarevok tried to stay out of the way when they were acting like this, but on this occasion he had a personal stake in the argument.

“Had you forgotten that _I_ also have to die if Bhaal is to reform?” Sarevok narrowed his golden eyes. Viconia smiled at him sweetly.

“No. I hadn’t.”

Still there was no denying that they had done their enemies’ dirty work for them that day. Out of all the Bhaalspawn following Gromnir Il-Khan, the party persuaded a grand total of three to lay down their weapons and disperse into the city.

Suddenly a door flew open and Melissan burst in, her red hair flying in all directions, her expression one of theatrical distress.

“Gromnir! Sarevok! Lay aside your weapons! We must work together to… NOOOOOO!”

She collapsed, weeping fat crocodile tears over the piles of glitter covering the floor. Sarevok rolled his eyes, but since they were solid gold it was impossible for Melissan to detect this.

“I see I am too late to stop the blood,” she sighed tragically. “You have slain Gromnir and many other Bhaalspawn as well.”

“I thought Gromnir’s guards took you away,” replied Sarevok dryly.

“I am not without my own resources Sarevok,” said Melissan. “Gromnir’s men left me in my cell when the battle started. I escaped as soon as I could, but I was too late. I… suppose this was inevitable.”

Sarevok said nothing. He was weighing up whether or not to reveal to Melissan that he knew who she was and try to take her out here and now. While he was chewing over his options, Bhaal’s priestess continued her atrocious acting.

“I knew the chance of Gromnir joining you was slim Sarevok, but I thought he might listen to reason. I was desperate to end this siege and I… I was wrong. I’m sorry.” She shook her flaming head in faux-shame. “Now I fear that we are all doomed. There is no way out of Saradush. Between the army and the strange imprisoning magics, even our wizards are trapped here.”

 _‘Your magics,’_ Sarevok thought. He had not been aware of these spells but he was not particularly surprised. In any case, he wasn’t minded to run and leave the city to its fate, though he struggled to put his finger on quite why.

He made up his mind and his grip tightened around his father’s sword.

“I remember you, you know.”

Melissan’s gentle, friendly face turned instantly glacial.

“I have no idea what you mean,” she replied frostily.

“You do. I know you do. You are one of Bhaal’s priestesses. You mean for the Bhaalspawn to slaughter each other until we’re all dead and our father can be reborn.”

The cultist’s eyes narrowed and she wet her lips delicately. A cruel, nasty little smile crept over her face which moments ago had been so round and open and friendly. She reached down, scooped up a palmful of golden dust and sprinkled it with satisfaction.

“Freya may have been stronger than you Sarevok, but you were always the brighter of the two of you,” she said, her voice totally devoid of any warmth. “You never got on, even as little children in the temple, but I don’t suppose you remember that.”

“I vaguely remember that there were other children,” Sarevok shrugged indifferently. “And flattery will not save you.”

Behind him Rasaad dropped into a fighting stance and Viconia began to mutter protective spells to shield the group. Melissan did not even bother to cast any protective enchantments of her own. This was not a good sign.

“Flattery?” she scoffed. “Calling you brighter than _Freya_ hardly constitutes flattery. I could say the same about some mushrooms.”

“You will not dishonour the name of our dead comrade!” Rasaad bellowed, though neither he nor Viconia could really deny that Melissan had a point.

“So you know who I am,” Melissan smirked. “As if that matters. Yaga-Shura will raise this city and you with it. It won’t only be Bhaalspawn who find themselves in a pile of ashes by the time he is finished with Saradush! Unless… unless…”

A cunning gleam had snuck into her cold eyes. Viconia didn’t like it, and her hand tightened over her mace.

“I _do_ still need to get rid of Yaga-Shura himself and that is not a simple matter. He’s a powerful fire giant to begin with but more than that, he seems to be invulnerable to harm,” she mused, eyeing Sarevok like a hungry snake. He braced himself for her strike. “Arrows, blades- even the most powerful of our enchanted spells and weapons leave no permanent mark. He heals faster than my agents can wound him.”

“You are saying Yaga-Shura is invincible?” Viconia blinked. For some inexplicable reason she looked rather hopeful.

“Yaga-Shura was not born with this immunity,” said Melissan. “He developed it… learned it somehow… during his childhood spent in a secret glade in the Forest of Mir. I can release you from the city and show you where that glade is, but it is only speculation. The key to the giant’s invulnerability may lie there or it may not. There may be nothing there at all. His followers also built a temple to him in the Marching Mountains. You may search for a way to destroy him there.”

Rasaad gaped at Melissan in disbelief.

“Why would we ever help _you,_ fiend?” he spluttered.

“Because if you refuse, Yaga-Shura will burn Saradush to the ground and everyone in it,” replied Melissan, knowingly. “And you will have the blood of a thousand infants on your hands.”

“We accept!” Viconia cut in immediately before either of the men could say anything.

Her red eyes were wide and glowing. Like Melissan, the drow also seemed too eager to take this deal, but the cultist did not seem to notice. She nodded and pulled a map from deep within her robes. On it she marked two locations with her fingernail.

There was a peel of light, a rushing of wind, and the three of them found themselves standing alone on a hilltop overlooking the siege of Saradush. It looked so much worse from the outside. The army surrounding them was larger than they had imagined. There were whole battalions which had been hidden from view. Parts of the city were burning.

“You have made a deal with a demon,” Sarevok told Viconia harshly.

“Do not speak to her like that!” Rasaad cut across him. “Viconia, my love, you have come so far. When we first met you would not have cared for the fate of the citizens of Saradush but now…”

“I’ve won…” giggled Viconia.

Both bald men fell silent, as Viconia practically danced on the spot in glee.

“I’ve won! Don’t you see? If Yaga-Shura really is invincible _he_ will destroy Arowan! All I need do is sit it out and I will survive this!”

She threw back her lovely head and laughed wickedly at the sky, thanking Shar or whatever providence had led them to this convenient juncture. That she could defeat the Adversary by simply doing _nothing!_

Rasaad, monk of the Sun Soul Order and Sarevok, Hero of Saradush, exchanged a silent look.

Without a word, the pair of them unfolded Melissan’s map and set off in the direction of Yaga-Shura’s birthplace, determined to save the city no matter how much the drow shrieked in protest. And shriek she did. Ceaselessly, every step of the way.


	15. Temporary Alliances

"Fall, fiend, and feed the earth!"

Jaheira's new staff, hastily acquired from the local traders using the Shadow Dragon's hoard, smashed into the Umar Inn's table, cracking it in two. The Innkeeper, a portly man by the name of Vincenzo, did not object. On the contrary, he was clutching at his moustache and egging her on.

"Kill it!" he shrieked. He, like most of his patrons, had leapt onto the bar for safety. "Kill it with fire! Kill it with knives! Beat it with a stick!"

"Get him! Get him!" agreed poor Bernard, who had not fled the wrath of dragons only to be confronted with this monstrosity.

"No, Jaheira, listen to me!" Coran yelped as her staff smashed against the floor, missing Bhaal by inches.

The Lord of Murder was back to being the size of a handbag dog. After Jaheira had taken a night to recover at the inn and the villagers had returned to find the dragons gone, Coran had summoned him to help explain the situation to Jaheira. With hindsight, perhaps he should have explained first and _then_ summoned Bhaal.

"Hold still, you fetid zombie-rat!" Jaheira screamed.

JAHEIRA IT'S ME!

Bhaal whimpered as he scuttled beneath the shelter of a dining chair, his sad little claws click-clicking on the floorboards. The druid advanced on the trembling canine, slowing him with vines as she spoke.

"Oh, I know it's you, Freya!" she seethed. "I don't know _how_ it's you, but a skinned-alive, potty-mouthed dog hanging out with Coran cannot possibly be coincidence!"

THEN WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING ME, YOU MAD GOBLIN HAG?

Bhaal howled, as the chair he was crouching under was beaten aside with one swipe of Jaheira's staff and splintered against the opposite wall.

LEAVE ME ALONE!

"This is for leading Khalid to his death!" screamed Jaheira, smacking the whimpering dog across the muzzle. "This is for leaving Arowan to rot in a jail cell and this…" she slammed her staff with all her strength over the pitiful creature's exposed cranium, cracking his skull. "Is for failing to defeat Irenicus!"

The party caught a split-second glance of Bhaal's brain before he flickered out of existence and back to the Abyss. It looked like lots of different coloured blobs mushed awkwardly together. Her fellow drinkers hopped down off the bar, cheering. Jaheira leaned on her staff, face flushed with fury and panting heavily.

"An exceptionally fine blow, if I may say so my lady," Anomen complimented her graciously.

"That was a bit harsh," Coran began awkwardly.

"Be grateful that I don't do the same to you, idiot child!" Jaheira berated the elf who was many decades her senior. "I understand that her death was hard on you, but reviving some shade or whatever that unnatural _thing_ was won't…"

"Bhaal."

"Excuse me?"

Coran nodded to Anomen, who hastily steered Jaheira back upstairs, while the elf shamefacedly paid for the damage and asked Vincenzo to send up some lunch. He clumped up the stairs after them, rubbing his arm ruefully. It was a crisscross of little slices now from all the times he had summoned Bhaal, but none of these wounds bothered him nearly so much as the scar about his neck. Sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat, imagining that it was tightening on him.

He reached Anomen's room to find Jaheira sat on the end of the bed, arms folded and glaring.

"That thing was…" he began, but Jaheira cut him off.

"Anomen explained it while you were paying Vincenzo," she snapped. "However, what both of us are struggling to understand is _why_ you keep summoning him. He isn't Freya, not really. Freya wasn't even Freya! She was Bhaal all along, you do understand that don't you?"

"If Freya was really Bhaal, then Bhaal is really Freya," Coran retorted stubbornly. He wore the expression of a small child caught pulling the stuffing out of an armchair.

Jaheira and Anomen exchanged a look. The elf felt like a naughty toddler whose parents were putting up a united front to discipline him. It grated considering that he was more than double their combined age. Guiltily, he slipped his hand into his pack and twirled the Girdle of Femininity around his wrist.

"Open your eyes Coran. Bhaal is using you. He's the god of murder," Jaheira said flatly.

"He's my best mate."

"Your best friend is dead," Anomen told him staunchly. "She died in Irenicus's dungeon along with Khalid. You must come to terms with this, you foolish pickpocket! I know not what Bhaal is scheming but-"

"The same thing we are!" Coran burst in frustration. His emerald eyes were burning and his face turning a shade of pink which clashed horribly with his auburn hair. "He has more cause to stop Arowan than anybody, he's the one who will be detonated if she succeeds. That means he'll die! Permanently this time!"

"Every cloud…" muttered Anomen.

"We have the Servant of all Faiths," snapped Jaheira rising to her feet. "We have the support of all _living_ gods, we don't need help from a dead one."

"And there's something else," said Coran. "Bhaal still carries a divine debt to the Silvershield family. This is his last chance to pay it back. If he dies with it hanging over him the dead god's soul will never rest. He has to restore the soul of Skie Silvershield."

Jaheira opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again uneasily. The unfortunate situation in Baldur's Gate was entirely her doing. She had taken Bodhi's phylactery to Baldur's Gate, and placed the gruesome coat on Skie's shoulders. Normally a phylactery could not control its wearer, but a body without a soul was a unique situation, and Skie's currently resided in the Soultaker Dagger. Duke Silvershield was so unpopular that Bodhi could practically rule the city while wearing Skie's face.

"How does Bhaal plan to restore Skie?" Jaheira asked carefully. "Where is the Soultaker Dagger? Does Arowan still have it?"

Anomen swallowed. They had been careful to avoid the subject of the Adversary as far as possible while Jaheira was recovering, but Keldorn was already leading the Order south to face her and they would need to ride after him soon.

"Yes my lady," he replied hesitantly.

Jaheira strode over to the window and flung it open, scowling at the distant fields and woods. She was as culpable for the situation in Baldur's Gate as anyone. As a Harper, it was her responsibility to undo the damage even if that meant allying herself with…

"Summon him back. Summon Bhaal."

Coran nodded and did so. As the tiny dog emerged, the first thing it did was snarl at Jaheira. She seized him by the scruff of his neck (or at least by his spine, strictly speaking there was no scruff on a skinless dog).

She was about to say something when a piercing scream rang from outside the tavern.

"Helm's beard, _now what?_ " roared Anomen, grabbing his shield and pelting down the stairs, closely followed by his companions. He stopped dead at the entrance to the Umar Inn and groaned audibly. "Not you again!"

Firkraag was back, curled up and yawning atop the ruined fountain, dangling something shiny between his claws.

"How rude," the scarlet dragon sniffed. "I come all this way to bring you a token from my own hoard and you greet me like this…"

Anomen squinted up at the shiny object that Firkraag was waving tantalizingly above him. Despite himself, his jaw dropped.

"We want none of your gifts, wyrm!" screeched Jaheira. She had not forgotten their last encounter which (for reasons involving a troll chef and copious dragon spittle) had not gone well. Suffice it to say that where Firkraag was concerned, Jaheira was not keen.

"N… no… I think we do want this one. Pardon, my lady, but I believe he is offering us…"

"…Casomyr." Firkraag confirmed smugly. He dropped it, and the blade whistled down to the ground, wedging itself up to the hilt.

It took Anomen and Coran's combined efforts to yank it out again. The red dragon had spotted Bhaal dangling from Jaheira's fist, and was glaring at him contemptuously.

"Well, well, dragon slayer," he gloated, grinning like a crocodile. Clearly the dragon had neither forgiven nor forgotten Bhaal's earlier attempts to pick a fight. "You seem somewhat diminished since last we spoke."

Firkraag idly flicked Bhaal from Jaheira's grasp with his claw and squashed him flat with one talon as the former god lay writhing on the ground. He made a most satisfying squelch.

"Great, now I have to slice myself again," muttered Coran, as Bhaal popped out of the mortal plane and Firkraag snickered.

Reluctantly, Coran summoned Bhaal for the third time that day. This time, as the mutilated dog returned from the Abyss, he scrambled straight into the safety of Coran's satchel, peering out with his wide lidless eyes.

"Casomyr," Anomen breathed, awestruck. He was holding the blade aloft, though to Coran it looked like any other pointy stick. "A weapon of legend. Perhaps one of the most powerful blades ever forged in Faerun. They say that it is infused with the very essence of valour and virtue. A bane to the forces of evil and chaos."

Firkraag cleared his scaly throat.

"To be clear, human, I donate this artefact to the Order on the understanding that it is to be used to oppose the Adversary. Under no circumstances are your kind to abuse my generosity by attempting to turn this blade on _me._ Such an act would meet with… severe retribution."

"I understand."

"As in roasting-your-grandmothers-retribution," Firkraag snarled.

Coran pulled a face. "That's open to misinterpretation," he said, wrinkling his nose.

Firkraag was unimpressed. He roared with a force that shook the foundations of nearby buildings. He spread his wings to their fullest extent, blocking out the sun and reared. Coran felt Bhaal digging to bury himself beneath the potions in his satchel.

"My network stretches to the four corners of the world. Its threads weave into every village and city! Casomyr is to be used to aid the Servant of all Faiths in defeating the Adversary. If I hear so much as a whisper from my agents of the Order conspiring to use it against me, I will eat your wives and pickle your eyeballs! I will crush your houses and stamp out your legacies. Not one member of your families- not even your fourth cousins by marriage twice removed- none will escape my wrath! Is _that_ open to misinterpretation, elf?"

"Um… no, that seems clear enough," Coran mumbled.

"In that case," grinned Firkraag, opening his talons invitingly, "Let us go."

Anomen looked confused, then as he realised what the dragon was suggesting he started backing away shaking his head.

"Walking will take weeks. Horses will take days. I can get you to Tethir in hours," Firkraag snapped impatiently.

Coran was far keener on the suggestion. Flying by dragon sounded like a fine caper to him and he scrambled into Firkraag's left talon. The beast closed his claws about him, one between his legs so that he could straddle it like a seat, and two more forming a harness over his shoulders. Coran shifted and wrapped his arms about the dragon's foot for extra security.

With a sigh Jaheira followed into the right talon, where she was reluctantly joined by Anomen. As the scaley foot closed around them, the two were forced into uncomfortably close proximity.

"Where in Tethir? Tethir is huge," said Coran.

"Find Sir Keldorn's army and land us there!" Anomen suggested.

"Absolutely not, they'll attack me," Firkraag retorted.

AS CLOSE TO SARADUSH AS YOU CAN SAFELY LAND US. THAT'S WHERE THE SERVANT OF ALL FAITHS IS, BUT BE CAREFUL. THE CITY IS UNDER SIEGE.

Everyone stared at the satchel containing Bhaal. For a moment the god did not emerge, but once he was confident that he was not about to be beaten to death or crushed again, he poked his ugly head out of it, sniffing.

"How do you know?" demanded Anomen crossly.

VICONIA, SAREVOK AND RASAAD KILLED ME THERE SEVERAL TIMES YESTERDAY.

"What are you talking about?" snapped Jaheira.

"Every time a Bhaalspawn dies they become incorporated back into him," explained Coran. "He remembers everything they remember."

ONLY A FEW MORE TO GO AND I'M BACK BABY!

Bhaal reflected happily. With the death of the last Bhaalspawn he would ascend once more and all of the misery of his numerous mortal lives would be worth it. He curled up in the satchel, running through the new collection of memories that had been added to his personality. Some happy, some sad, many embarrassing. It was becoming easier to assimilate the extra personalities as time went on. Like an increasingly large lake of water, each new drop made less of a difference.

"Saradush it is then," yawned Firkraag, stretching his wings ready for take-off.

"Um…?"

They all looked down. Bernard was hovering nervously at the door to the Umar Inn. He was wobbling all over like a soft, pale jelly. Anomen and Coran exchanged a guilty glance. They had quite forgotten about their Harper driver.

"I… I don't need to come do I? Jaheira?"

"No Bernard," replied the druid, as kindly as her harsh voice would allow. "I want you to go back to Baldur's Gate and keep me posted on the situation there. You can contact me by the usual channels."

"Yes ma'am. Pigeons it is," Bernard blustered in relief.

With a flap of his wings that made their hair whip about their faces, Firkraag took off into the glorious afternoon sky. The world below shrank smaller and smaller beneath them until it was a mere patchwork of fields dotted with doll towns. Coran laughed delightedly, and Bhaal poked his lolling head out of the bag, fleshless ears flickering in the breeze. Even Anomen, once he could bring himself to look down, had to acknowledge that the view was magnificent.

* * *

* * *

A tall slender man in plain grey robes slipped out from between lines of Dark Moon monks. Beyond the river protecting his latest temple, repurposed from a dwarven mine, lurked a pale waif of a creature.

Night had closed in upon the river's inky waters, but she was lit by the glow of two torches. One in her own skeletal little hands, another much larger, carried by the half-orc at her side.

From her wavy brown hair and freckles to her white gloves and the robes she was wearing that had clearly been made for someone much larger, she seemed utterly harmless. Alorgoth knew better. This (if the undead emissaries she sent lurching into the complex were to be believed) was the Adversary herself.

His monks had destroyed the first dozen zombie messengers without bothering to disturb him. This had not perturbed her in the slightest. She had simply kept sending them one after another, each enchanted to repeat one simple message. The Adversary wishes to speak to the Doombringer.

Eventually, nervously, they had relayed the invitation to him.

"Should we attack, master?" enquired an oily acolyte. Alorgoth raised a single palm to shut him up.

"Remain here. I will speak with her."

"Alone? Is that wise?" gasped the acolyte, who was quite new to Shar's cult.

Alorgoth turned around slowly. Instinctively, the Dark Moon monks nearest to the acolyte took a step backward. Yet the expected retribution did not come.

"No," he mused. "You may accompany me if you wish."

The acolyte regretted speaking up, but there was nothing for it now. He followed his master across a creaking drawbridge, tugging his cloak about him as defence against the chill night air. As they drew closer to the waif and her half-orc bodyguard, the temperature seemed to drop.

"Good evening, Alorgoth," the waif greeted him pleasantly. "And who is this you've brought with you?"

"I'm nobody important!" squeaked the acolyte. As a servant of Shar he was accustomed to some pretty dark stuff but there was something about the Adversary's empty stare that gave him the creeps.

"Something I'm sure we can all agree on," Alorgoth noted frostily, eyeing the acolyte with dislike. "How did you recognize me and how came you by this temple?"

Arowan lifted one hand and began to idly tug the fingers of her white gloves. Behind her, shapes were moving in the darkness. As a cleric, Alorgoth could sense the presence of undead and even bend them to his will, but the numbers were vast. Controlling so many at once was far beyond the abilities of an average necromancer, though not unheard of. He himself had raided tombs for artefacts where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of undead minions remained trained to their master's control.

"I saw you at the Twofold Temple when your monks unsuccessfully attacked it." She laid a delicate stress on the word _unsuccessfully._

"I do not recall your face."

"Nobody ever does," Arowan smiled wanly. "As for how I knew about this place…"

She beckoned idly and a bald zombie broke ranks and stepped forward. Clearly this necromancer had made more effort with him than the others. Not a spec of rot had been allowed to grow upon his tattooed flesh. Months of preservation in the frozen gully of the Cloud Peak mountains had caused his lips to shrink back from his teeth and his eyes were milky white, yet there was no mistaking his former pupil.

"Gamaz yn Bashir," Alorgoth noted indifferently. "Do you expect me to be intimidated by this ridiculous gesture, little girl? This Sun Soul cretin was as weak in life as he is in death."

"I didn't bring him back for your benefit," Arowan replied, tracing her fingers over the tattoos on Gamaz's chest, just as she had once done with his brother when the two of them had been lovers. "He's a little surprise for Rasaad yn Bashir, but I was able to extract your location from what few echoes remain of his mind."

"Tell this little human the plan. We don't have all night," grunted Dorn impatiently. There was scarce prospect of a battle tonight, which meant that the Blackguard wasn't interested.

"Yes do," Alorgoth smiled like a reptile.

"You want Viconia out of the way so that you can take her place as the Servant of all Faiths, Shar's Elect, yada yada," Arowan said waving her hand. "I also want rid of her for obvious reasons. As luck would have it Rasaad is obsessed with you and Viconia is obsessed with Rasaad. If we lure him here to face you, she will follow. You spring a trap… takes care of that problem."

"You would have to trap her though," Dorn filled in an important detail that Arowan had left out. "It is not possible to simply kill the Servant of all Faiths. Believe me, it is not for lack of trying."

"Of course… there's nothing to say you couldn't blind her or cut off her feet," Arowan suggested helpfully.

Nobody thought to ask her what the purpose of chopping off the drow's feet would be if Viconia was already trapped. Both Dorn and Alorgoth were perfectly comfortable with the notion of violence for its own sake.

"Do you think me a fool?" Alorgoth hissed. "You would not suggest this if you believed that I could replace Viconia as the Chosen One."

Arowan smiled. It was a glassy, empty smile. Her eyes were not on him but fixed upon a distant star twinkling lightyears beyond the back of his head.

"Of course not," she agreed. "But from your point of view it hardly matters what _I_ think, does it? The real question is whether _you_ think you ought to be the Chosen One."

"We will be sending Rasaad your way with or without your cooperation," growled Dorn, who had little respect for Arowan's convoluted machinations. "Prepare or don't, it is of no consequence to us."

"I mean… it's of some consequence," Arowan corrected delicately.

Dorn lowered his broad face to her, his black eyes sparkling with malice. The emaciated necromancer barely registered him.

"I had thought, Little Lamb, that I might find you less irritating once you took up the mantle of the Adversary. I see now that I was wrong."

"Be that as it may…" sighed Arowan, indifferently.

"Very well," Alorgoth hissed suddenly. "You have a deal, fallen one. A temporary truce while we remove Shar's false priestess. I will banish her to the Shadow Realms from which there can be no escape. While she slowly starves in the darkness, I shall come for you!"

Arowan smiled at him glassily.

"How nice."

* * *

* * *

That night, as the zombies lumbered about aimlessly, Arowan chewed over her next move. Dorn cooked a stew made from hells-knew what meat the undead had butchered for them. He stirred it in a pot dangling over the only fire in their camp. As always, persuading the ranger to eat it was a nuisance, but there was also a new problem.

"You appear to be bleeding," he noted.

"Indeed…" Arowan nodded vaguely. She shuffled around some little stones which he could only assume represented the pawns in her cold, scheming mind. He wondered which pebble represented himself.

Dorn slopped a large splash of the stew into her bowl and added some water to cool it. Then he stood over her and made her eat. A brief flicker of irritation crossed her face, and her mind kept wandering. At one point she forgot to swallow and choked.

"You cannot fulfil your destiny without a functioning body!" he snarled. "Take care of yourself, wretch!"

"My body doesn't need to last very long," she reassured him. "But thank you for reminding me about food. Staying alive is necessary… for now…"

Dorn was about to storm away, but he could not bear to let the situation stand. Personal hygiene was hardly the half-orc's forte but even he had his limits.

"Your time of month is upon you!" he stated bluntly.

"Indeed."

"Aren't you going to _do_ something about it?"

She looked down at her stained robes and then up at Dorn. Not so much as a twitch of embarrassment, humour, defiance or any other feeling crossed her face.

"Whatever for?"

"Why did you take basic care of yourself before the Numbing Potions?"

Arowan tilted her head to one side to consider the question.

"I don't know really," she replied. "I did a lot of things that were not necessary… that were not important… Destroying the evil is all that matters now. I have no interest in petty aesthetics."

"If that is true, take off the Charisma Ring. You have no further use for my gift."

With a shrug, Arowan did as he had requested. The Blackguard had seen many horrible things in his lifetime (and caused most of them) but he had not been prepared for this. While wearing the Charisma Ring, she had radiated an aura of waif-like glamour. Without it, her true appearance was barely human.

The scar that Viconia had left on her cheek had taken over half of her face from the ranger's obsessive scratching of it. Her teeth were furry and yellow from months of neglect, large chunks of her hair were missing and there was a yellowish tinge to her blotchy skin. Lifeless eyes stared out at him. Were they not blinking, Dorn might have imagined that he was seeing a half-decomposed corpse.

"Put it back on again," he said hoarsely.

The fallen ranger shrugged her bird-like shoulders and complied. She didn't care. Not about that, not about anything. She placed the ring back on her finger and at once her shrunken appearance took on a more palatable vibe.

"Well, that was interesting," remarked Melissan.

The redheaded woman was the only true colour in the camp and she looked highly out of place. Nevertheless, she strode confidently through ranks of uncaring zombies, stopping in front of Arowan with a contemptuous sneer.

"Who are you?" thundered Dorn. Arowan smiled, winding the Charisma Ring about her finger.

"I was wondering when you would show up."

"You know who I am?"

"Amelyssan I presume. I knew you'd turn up sooner or later. Erowan told us about you. That you had a way to locate us all and sweep all the droplets back into the lake. Are you going to attempt to murder me now? I have to say, I don't much fancy your chances."

Amelyssan's face twisted into a scowl.

"I will deal with Erowan later," she muttered darkly. "But for now, Bhaalspawn, I come with a warning. The fire giant Bhaalspawn, Yaga-Shura, is invincible. Even if your army defeats his, he will obliterate you. Luckily for you, I believe I know where the secret behind his power might be found. If you're lucky you might even be able to catch Sarevok at the same time."

Arowan fiddled with the tips of her gloves, before turning her frigid eyes to Bhaal's priestess.

"I'm listening."


	16. Ghosts

"Th- thank you, kind Lord! An honest merchant cannot even travel the roads anywhere in Tethir without being set upon by armies and vagabonds it seems!"

Sarevok stared down at the merchant sceptically. He had dealt extensively in trade during his time with the Iron Throne and he doubted very much that there was such a creature as an 'honest merchant.'

The merchant mopped his balding brow as he surveyed the fallen troops around him and sighed. For all his theatrics, Sarevok had no doubt that the bodies would be picked clean as soon as they left.

"I'm surprised to see others in this glade, never mind soldiers. I was a bit nervous about passing through it myself considering its history."

"You know something of this glade?" growled Sarevok.

"I have heard that this place was once home to a Temple of Bhaal," the merchant whispered conspiratorially. "At least until his death. When he died most of his followers dispersed or converted to Cyric and that temple is no exception. The ones who stayed are supposed to have died horribly, and so they haunt the temple. Spirits and other… things… seem drawn there as well."

"Yaga-Shura must have been raised in this southern Temple," Rasaad murmured. "One can only imagine what it must have been like to be raised by so evil-a-cult."

Sarevok on his left and Viconia on his right both turned to stare at him incredulously. It belatedly occurred to the monk that one of his companions had, in fact, been raised by the cult of Bhaal for the first decade or so of his life. His other companion had been brought up by the priestesses of Lolth which was by all accounts even worse.

"Bhaal's temple is a frightening place," the merchant wheedled. "I approached it myself on the off chance that there were…"

"Trinkets to loot?" suggested Sarevok.

"…discarded refuse which could be recycled for the benefit of both the public and the environment," the merchant corrected him swiftly. "But in any case the spirits drove me off. I wouldn't stay any longer than you must, if I were you."

"Noted," replied Sarevok, "But my father's temples hold no terror for me."

The merchant backed away swiftly at Sarevok's words, tripping over a jutting rock and bouncing on his plump bottom. Viconia chuckled.

"Your… Your father, you say?" the merchant stammered. "I've always said Bhaal… misunderstood… heck of a guy… must dash now, best of luck to you and all that, not that you need it eh? Being a demi-god?"

Sarevok watched him go dispassionately, and the party moved on, guided by Melissan's map. They did not have far to go and encountered only a handful of Yaga-Shura's scouts. As they neared their target the smell grew dank and putrid. A yellowish mist hung in the air that made their skin itch as they passed through it.

Bhaal's ruin, when they reached it, was sited not so much in a glade as a swamp. Dead trees loomed over it, their branches twisting through the limbs of contorted, demonic statues carved in the former god's honour.

"This looks very different to the last two temples," Rasaad whispered.

"One was underground and had been taken over by Cyricists, the other was up a mountain and had been adopted by the Twofold Trust. Presumably the new owners redecorated," shrugged Viconia. "This one is in a squalid little swamp. I am not surprised that nobody wanted it."

A frog croaked a short way away, as though in agreement.

"It concerns me that we have not yet encountered these spirits the merchant warned us of," Sarevok noted warily. "We should proceed with caution."

"Afraid, Sarevok?" sneered Viconia.

"I have died once, drow, I am in no hurry to do so again."

Yet despite his earlier words, he _was_ afraid. There was no logical reason that he should be. To all intents and purposes these statues had been fashioned in his honour, since as far as the cult were concerned Bhaal and his children were one and the same.

He tarried a way behind the other two, feeling strangely reluctant to approach the entrance. This place conjured memories of blood-stained altars and cowering children and the knowledge that he too would be slain…

He was ripped from his unpleasant thoughts by a scream from Viconia and a yell of shock from Rasaad. Two figures had emerged from the temple to greet them. The reason for the monk's reaction soon became apparent.

"Father?"

"Rasaad."

"But you… you are dead…" he stammered. "I saw the pit fighter-"

The shade of the man looked as though he had been little older than Rasaad himself when he had died. He was smaller, less muscular and where Rasaad was bald his father had a sweep of dense black hair. Rasaad's father had no tattoos, yet were it not for these details they might have been doppelgangers.

Sarevok observed the second figure with interest. A slender drow wizard with an impish smile. What relation he bore to Viconia, he was not sure, since the cleric seemed unable to bring herself to speak.

"My life ended in the Arena Efreetum, but you were the one who struck the killing blow," Bashir Senior went on to say, to Rasaad's obvious dismay.

"What?" he cried.

"You must know the truth in your heart," the dead man pressed. "I needed you Rasaad, but you hid in the streets playing with Gamaz while I slaved trying to keep us fed. When I needed you most, you were too weak."

"No it is not true I-" Rasaad began, but Sarevok cut in impatiently.

"The only thing you are weak in, Rasaad, is the head!" he thundered, shouldering his way to the front.

As soon as he did so, a third figure descended the steps of Bhaal's temple to greet him. This time his own mentor from Baldur's Gate. Sarevok sliced through his transparent neck without a word and the vision fizzled away.

"What are you doing? Stop!" Viconia howled, but Sarevok was already turning his attention to the drow ghost.

To his irritation, the cleric flung herself between them, begging 'Valas' to explain his presence.

"I am dead, Viconia. At long last, after the agony of being a loathesome drider for so many long years. I… could not take the torture. I couldn't!"

Sarevok folded his arms and watched a ridiculous back and forth as Viconia pleaded with her brother to accept that it was not her fault she'd had to abandon him to his fate, while Rasaad tried to defend himself from his father's accusations that his laziness had led to his death. He waited for one of them to notice the obvious. Yet the longer it went on for in this rancid swamp, the thinner his patience wore, until he finally snapped.

"Fools!" he rounded on them. "The dead are up and about and playing mind games with us. Yet you take this at face value?"

Viconia blinked at him, confused through her tears. Sarevok groaned in frustration.

"Am I truly the only one who thinks that this has Arowan written all over it?"

Viconia and Rasaad looked at each other stunned, then back at their respective relatives. Blood surged into the monk's face, while Viconia's own expression contorted with a hideous fury. Of course, the necromancer had staged this encounter. It was _exactly_ the sort of thing she would do. Sharran and Selunite were furious with themselves for not realising it at once.

Sarevok's own mentor rematerialized, laughing at him. Lightning struck the party from above, causing little damage against their spells and armour, but knocking them temporarily from their feet.

"You resist me? Oh… very cunning…" the shade chuckled. "It shall be a pleasure to feast on your god-child soul!"

The faces of their dead families smoothed before their eyes into grey, featureless masks. The hollows of eyes and bumps of noses remained but in their true forms the shades had no eyebrows or lashes or nostrils. Only gaping O-shaped holes where their mouths should be.

Viconia focussed and tried to Turn Undead. She had grown much more powerful in recent years and the shades were driven back. They would still have to destroy them in order to get through the temple, but suddenly they were all distracted by the sound of approaching feet.

Lured by the possibility of easier prey, the shades abandoned their attempts to break through Viconia's spell and turned their attention to the direction of the sound. The party exchanged looks. This could only be Arowan herself, along with who knew how many undead followers.

Viconia led the party up the temple steps where they crouched behind a wall and waited, peering through the branches of a sickly swamp shrub.

Moments later Arowan stepped out of the mist, followed closely by Dorn. It was the first time Viconia had seen the Adversary in person since realising what she was, and fear struck her like a fist against the heart. A cold sweat prickled over her forehead and she had to hold onto Rasaad to steady herself.

Their enemies had come alone. The ranger stopped at the bottom of the steps leading up to the stone ruin and surveyed it calculatingly.

A tiny, wrinkled hand fastened over Viconia's shoulder. The drow almost screamed but stopped herself just before she gave away her position. Beside her, an old lady grinned with a single, lonely tooth and pressed her finger to her lips.

"You got past Nyalee's doormen did you?" she whispered. "Very impressive. Now how will these two do, Nyalee wonders?"

Arowan watched the temple for some time. Her brown eyes took in every detail of the statues and the pillars, as though searching them for some hint as to the source of Yaga-Shura's power. Finally she turned to Dorn.

"Wait here."

Dorn hefted Rancor with an annoyed expression. He had always been grim and unpleasant, but it seemed to Sarevok that his face bore more signs of strain than the last time they'd crossed paths. Whatever he had been hoping for once Arowan became the Adversary, he did not seem to have found it.

"First you insist on leaving the army behind, now you head into this haunted house alone?" Dorn complained loudly.

"I need to _think_ ," Arowan said coldly. "I appreciate that this is an alien concept to you, Dorn, so let me explain using simple language: If temple empty, I study better without grunting thug in my way. If temple occupied, I can ask them questions if grunting thug no cut off their heads. You see?"

"The hypothetical occupants of this temple are not the only ones in danger of having their heads sliced off," Dorn threatened under his breath.

Arowan ignored him and ascended the steps cautiously leaving the half-orc sulking at the bottom. Viconia's party watched as Nyalee began to twitch in silent excitement, her gummy smile widening eagerly. Sure enough, about halfway up the steps, an apparition appeared before the fallen ranger.

The shades were translucent but they had a little colour to them. From behind, Rasaad and Viconia recognized the ginger hair and the slightly twitchy demeanour of one of their former travelling companions, though Sarevok had never known him. He had died between Freya's jaws long before Arowan's party arrived in Baldur's Gate.

"A- Arrow?" the shade stammered nervously. "Is… Is that you?"


	17. Nyalee

"A- Arrow?"

What little colour remained in Arowan's face left it and in an instant Viconia and Rasaad knew with utter certainty that these shades were not her doing. Khalid's sudden appearance had caught the Adversary as off-guard as their siblings had caught them. Perhaps more so.

Automatically Arowan's hand flew to one of her cold little bottles of grey liquid. Her fingers clenched about it but before she could top up her dose of Numbing Potion, a crackle of lightning burst from the glade and shattered it in her hands.

"Khalid? No… this cannot be…" she whispered.

"Why did you d- d- do it, my daughter?" the shade stuttered. "Why did you take those potions? Wh- why? You kn- knew what they were! What have you become?"

To the astonishment of Viconia's party, Arowan's legs buckled beneath her and she half-collapsed onto the step. She sat there, looking up at her adopted father's ghost, in a disorientated sort of way.

Below them, Dorn's eyes narrowed into slits. Apparently her lack of self-care had reached the extreme of even forgetting to take Numbing Potion until she started experiencing withdrawal symptoms. This was a problem. He was not sure how many a day she took now that she was able to manufacture her own, but what was certain was that she would not survive a missed dose for long.

"I did it because of you, and Jaheira," Arowan replied. It was as though she were dredging up a piece of ancient history though it was not yet two years in the past. "I had to go to Irenicus's lair to find you but I saw what he did to Freya. I was afraid."

Khalid nodded kindly, and beckoned to the shadows. A second shade emerged to stand behind him of a young man with a katana strapped to his back, a long dark ponytail and a sad smile.

"I understand," the second shade assured her. "I was afraid too, but perhaps it is not too late for you and I to atone for what we did through fear. Perhaps not even now."

"Yoshimo?"

Without warning, Arowan screamed; a long piercing shriek that went on and on. She buried her hands into her pack rummaging desperately for Numbing Potions but the shades struck with their lightening again and vaporized her entire supply. Dorn privately congratulated himself on having had the wit to carry spares.

"No!" Arowan howled, as the presence of her adopted father and her husband pierced through the wearing-off Numbing Potion and her feelings began creeping back. "No, nooooo…"

Khalid knelt down and placed a hand on her shoulder in a fatherly way.

"Get away from me!" she moaned, backing away on all fours. "You're not really him."

"No of c- c- course not," Khalid's shade confessed unexpectedly. "These are just e- echoes of those who have passed on. The real souls of those you love are w- waiting for you to join them."

"I never had the option of joining you!" Arowan spat bitterly. "Dying will only make me a part of Bhaal! I tried anyway… I tried and they wouldn't even let me have that. Anomen and Dorn and their potions…"

Beside her, Viconia felt Rasaad tense. "We must have words with Anomen," he whispered through gritted teeth.

Khalid's shade had knelt down and was patting Arowan's hair. The ranger's body was shaking visibly, much as Eric's had done in those grim days leading up to his death. She, however, was far further in the grip of her addiction and the process far more rapid.

"The spirits of this place devour souls," Yoshimo explained, taking Arowan's unresisting hand. "We can end this for you."

"N- no more p- p- pain. You don't have to be part of B- Bhaal anymore, or p- part of anything." Khalid added, taking her other hand.

Arowan gazed at them uncertainly. Rasaad realised that she had matched Gamaz in insanity, if not overtaken him. The shades had offered to _eat her soul_ and this broken creature was actually considering taking them up on it. Beside them, Nyalee cackled quietly with glee.

"Nonexistence. It is a better deal than I got, Crazy Lady, believe me," Yoshimo sighed.

Arowan's quaking grew more violent. Veins were pulsing in the whites of her eyes, and her flesh was taking on a strangely yellow tinge. She turned to Yoshimo, the lines between reality and the shade vision blurred beyond distinction in what was left of her mind.

"Then Ilmater did not release you when we took him your heart? You are in hell?" Arowan asked.

Had Sarevok had a bow, he would have put his wretched sister out of her misery there and then. It occurred to him that if he had conversed with the shades, at some point Yoshimo's sister would have shown up. His Tamoko. He could only thank whichever gods were watching them for sparing him that.

"You did not think that the gods would pardon the consort of the Adversary, did you?" Yoshimo shook his head. "But you need not live with the knowledge of my fate or what you have done. You may put an end to your existence here and now. It is an opportunity few mortals are blessed with. Walk on with us. You can't go back now."

Yoshimo's shade held one of her hands, Khalid the other. They were drawing her to her feet now, leading her to the third shade. The most powerful. Their leader. It had taken on the form of Jaheira.

"Come with us," Khalid smiled gently.

Arowan took a step forward toward Jaheira's waiting arms.

"She is lost… lost she is…" Nyalee crowed.

Yet without warning, Arowan was violently hauled back. Dorn had seized her by the middle with one arm and was holding out Rancor with the other. In the hand holding her he clutched a small dose of Numbing Potion which she snatched from him frantically and swallowed in one gulp, licking the rim with her tongue.

"Begone, ghost. The Little Lamb is mine!" he growled.

The shades hissed in anger at having been deprived of their meal. Yet Arowan was fully numb once more and there was no hope of regaining her cooperation now.

"Get me out from under your armpit Dorn, I am quite recovered," she snapped. Dorn dropped her with a thud and she glared at him, freshly dosed and numb to the mewlings of the shades, though she was clearly still rattled by the encounter. "Enough of this idiocy!"

Purple-black coils of necromantic energy erupted from her fingertips and consumed the shades. The spirits of Khalid, Jaheira and Yoshimo were torn to shreds by long tentacles of dark magic. Arowan watched them disintegrate dispassionately, before turning to Dorn.

"Better late than never, Blackguard."

The half-orc seized her by the collar of her filthy robes and dragged her, choking, to eye-level.

"I swear, if my patron did not will it otherwise, I would slaughter you myself."

Arowan's brown eyes narrowed into icy shards.

"You could try."

Sarevok nudged Rasaad and Viconia hard in the ribs.

"She is without her army! It is only her and Dorn Il-Khan. This is the best chance we are ever likely to get!" he urged them, not troubling to keep his voice down. "We should attack! Now!"

Dorn looked toward the temple straight into Sarevok's eyes and grinned eagerly. This was a match he had been anticipating for some time. Slaughtering that pompous monk would grant him a slither of satisfaction too. Arowan need only take care of Viconia, except…

"What are you doing?" howled Dorn.

Arowan was brushing herself off, still staring at the place where the shades of Khalid and Yoshimo had stood. As she did so, she began to back slowly away.

"No, not… not now," she said, shivering. "Do you have any more Numbing Potion?"

Dorn stared at her, aghast.

"How many a day do you drink now?" he growled. "You just swallowed an entire bottle, you cannot possibly still feel anything!"

"I need to brew more," Arowan replied frostily. She turned and swept away back into the swamp. "Now! Let the Servant of all Faiths take care of Yaga-Shura."

Snarling with disappointed rage, Dorn slunk reluctantly after her, leaving Viconia's party with a clear path to the temple. The drow caught a brief glimpse of her brother (as a drider this time) scuttling out of the mist. More of the accursed shade magic, no doubt. Arowan disappeared into the fog after Valas, but it was too much to hope that one last spirit might polish her off.

Rasaad was staring after Arowan. For some reason, his face was contorting in agony.

"She could have been brought back!" he cried.

Viconia slapped him hard.

"Do not dare, do not _dare_ male to care for her after everything that-"

"Don't you understand?" Rasaad hollered. "If she is redeemable then so was Gamaz! If _she_ can be brought back then so could he, and instead I let him die! I didn't even try!"

"Please, Shar, not this again," groaned Viconia. "I would almost prefer you mooning over the Adversary to whinging on about Gamaz _again._ "

"Might I remind you both that Saradush is still under siege and could fall at any moment?" Sarevok interjected as Rasaad opened his mouth angrily to reply. "Save your squabbles for another time. We have a fire giant to deal with."

The elderly lady who had been squatting beside them in their hiding place let out a titter.

* * *

* * *

"Nyalee knew you would come," the hunch backed old woman told them, hobbling deeper into the temple. "The powerful one, who is the spawn of the dead master."

She cast Sarevok a sideways, admiring look.

Clattering bones rattled in the shadows and the party found themselves surrounded by skeletons, still robed in the clothes they had died in. They were former clerics and temple guards, cultists of Bhaal.

"Call them off, old woman!" Sarevok warned her.

"Nothing to do with Nyalee they are. Nothing to do with the witch of the swamp. Not anymore."

"It is the master! The master come again!" hissed the nearest skeleton. It peered at Sarevok through eyeless sockets, then recoiled slightly. "No… hold… it is just a vessel for the master's power! An abomination! Kill it in the name of Bhaal!"

Rasaad's fist collided abruptly with the top of the skeleton's skull, shattering it, but moments later an arrow pierced his thigh. The clerics retained some remnants of their power, casting weak defensive spells and holy armour. To Sarevok, who had little interest in theology, this meant nothing. However, it struck the party's monk and cleric as odd.

"I do not understand this," Rasaad panted, grasping the ribs of one of the skeletons and ripping its ribcage apart. It clattered to the floor, its skull still chittering angrily. "How can their prayers be answered by a dead god?"

Nyalee chuckled, making no effort to assist either side in their fight.

"The master is not dead… not really… Nyalee knows…"

"That thing at the Twofold Temple, that skinless wolf," Viconia recalled with a shudder. Whatever was left of Bhaal it was no match for the living power of Shar, and the skeletal cleric she was fighting disintegrated in a plume of black dust. "The one Erowan summoned…"

"Erowan summoned the master?" Nyalee shrieked suddenly.

A gong reverberated through the stones of the temple and a black ring of energy centred on the old woman exploded outward across the swamp. It passed harmlessly through the living but the skeletons were blasted back by it. They retreated as fast as their bony feet would carry them, tripping over themselves in their haste to get away.

The one-toothed crone was not cackling anymore. Her milky grey eyes burned savagely at Sarevok. Viconia yanked the arrow from Rasaad's thigh making him yelp and hastily healed over the wound.

"Erowan? _Erowan?"_ she spat. "Loyal Nyalee stays here in the temple, raising the dead master's son, offering her prayers to no reply year after year… and the ungrateful brute shows up for _Erowan?_ "

"Who is Erowan?" Sarevok demanded.

"The last Bhaal cultist remaining at the Twofold Temple in the mountains," Rasaad explained. "We've run into a few of Bhaal's former priestesses aside from yourself."

"Who?" asked Nyalee curiously.

"Melissan most recently. She sent us here," replied Sarevok. The old woman shuddered.

"Just as long as she does not come in person," she replied disgustedly. "Nyalee does not see eye to eye with Amelyssan, no she does not. A piece of work Amelyssan is. Nyalee knows…"

"And Madele is still out there somewhere," replied Rasaad. He wet his lips uneasily. Freya, being less-than-gifted in the cranial department, had simply turned the blind, crippled cultist loose in the general vicinity of Boareskyr Bridge. It had not been her intent to be cruel, but the Hero of Baldur's Gate tended not to think things through carefully enough. Now that he came to think on it, Madele's survival seemed doubtful. He sighed. "Possibly."

"Madele… yes… looked after the master she did, in his mortal form. She was not liking Amelyssan either, if Nyalee recalls correctly. It was all so long ago and Nyalee's eyes grow dim."

"Nobody likes Amelyssan," cut in Sarevok, as always finding himself having to drag his party back to the matter at hand. "But it is Yaga-Shura we have come for."

"It is the boy? That traitorous fool of a half-giant boy of mine? You come because of Yaga-Shura! My boy has been a pain for you and me both, and you wish his blood, yes?"

"What are you blithering about; 'boy of yours?'" demanded Viconia. "Yaga-Shura cannot be your son!"

"Half-giants are not that uncommon," Rasaad pointed out mildly.

Viconia rolled her scarlet eyes up to the dripping tops of the swamp trees. In recent years the monk had grown considerably less naive and innocent, but he still had his moments of utter obliviousness.

"Yes, Mooncalf, I understand that," she replied through gritted teeth. "But the giant part has to come from the _mother._ Think about it. If you have not figured it out by supper time I shall draw you a picture."

Rasaad pinkened, and Sarevok snickered. Nyalee, however, was still lost in her own reminiscence.

"Nay, the boy did not spring from Nyalee's loins. Nyalee did see him for the spawn-child he was while still a babe and stole him from the crib! Raise him here in the temple as her own did she. But a betrayer is the boy! Did Nyalee not teach the boy the old tricks, yes? And the boy did leave Nyalee here to rot! Steals her heart even!"

"Tell us how to kill him or we will kill you," said Sarevok flatly.

"That Nyalee will do! The traitorous boy will not even see it coming, oh no! Nyalee will have her revenge…" she smiled. "Once a great cleric of Bhaal was Nyalee. But then great Bhaal is dead, and Nyalee is forced to turn to the older arts to survive. Nyalee steals the spawn-child Yaga-Shura to raise in the temple does she. Tries to take him Amelyssan does. Kill them all, she wishes. Master's will it was."

Rasaad's tattooed brow knotted.

"So you do _not_ wish Bhaal to return?"

"Amelyssan's idea the Bhaalspawn were! Stupid plan it was!" Nyalee spat. "Nyalee told the Master so at the time but listen he did not. Even the prototype got away, yes it did, and spawning in the wild it has been. Years it took Amelyssan just to round up the little rats. Known then it would not work, he should have!"

"Prototypes?" probed Viconia.

"Test Bhaalspawn they made… one that posed no risk of becoming powerful… disgusting it was, drunk he was, forbade us to speak of it afterwards he did…"

"We are getting side-tracked again!" groaned Sarevok. "Yaga-Shura, old woman! Focus your crumbling mind!"

Nyalee hobbled to the damp temple wall, scratched off some algae with her fingernail and rubbed it between finger and thumb into a ball. Then she popped it into her mouth and swallowed it whole. Apparently this is what she had been finding here to eat.

"A new Lord of Murder did Nyalee hope to create from the spawn Yaga-Shura. Foolish old Nyalee. Teaches the boy the old tricks did she, teaches the boy to remove his heart did she. The boy removed his heart and keeps it burning with magical flames. While his heart burns no harm may come to Yaga-Shura. No death may come until his heart is quenched."

"How?" pressed Sarevok.

"Only Nyalee knows the words and the arts to extinguish the boy's heart, she does. But Nyalee needs her own heart to use the arts and the boy stole it years ago. Keeps it, he does. Find Nyalee's heart and Yaga-Shura's both and bring them to her! Nyalee will quench his heart forever then. Heehee! So surprised and shocked he will be!"

Sarevok nodded and stroked his chin. His fingers had picked up some of the green swamp slime and he left himself a beard of grime. Nobody pointed this out to him.

"Very well, I will do as you suggest," Sarevok replied, casting his eyes to the map where Amelyssan had marked Yaga-Shura's temple. The old woman smiled, her one tooth poking over her bottom lip.

"Nyalee can't wait!"


	18. Chinchilla

"Never, ever again!" Anomen thundered, massaging his aching ribs.

He hadn't looked yet but he felt certain there must be heavy purple bruises beneath his clothes from where Firkraag had been gripping him in flight. The pain had come on slowly over hours in the air as gravity pulled him down. His legs ached from so long dangling unsupported and his shoulders felt almost dislocated.

"If a hundred years pass before I see that blasted lizard again it will still be too soon!" agreed Jaheira, whose belly bore a claw mark from Firkraag's digging talons.

"That was _insane!_ " beamed Coran, as Bhaal barked and wagged his tail in agreement.

The elf had relished his flight. The wind in his hair and the world miles beneath his feet seemed to have knocked a hundred years off him. He was beaming all over his face and rolling about in the dust with a slobbering, excitable Bhaal.

"A question for you, Bhaal," Jaheira began imperiously.

YES?

Bhaal's tail drooped and he eyed the druid's staff with apprehension.

"You must be dozens of Bhaalspawn by now, if not hundreds. Correct?"

YES.

"Some of them, I know for a fact, had a brain between their ears. Take Eric, for instance." She placed her hands on her hips and glared at Bhaal. "Whereas you still remind me very much of Freya. You see where I'm going with my question…?"

WE ARE NOT MERGED PROPERLY YET. NOT COMPLETELY. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING THEY REMEMBER, FEEL WHAT THEY FEEL. PERHAPS FREYA IS THE DOMINANT PERSONALITY BUT IT IS HARD TO TELL. SHE WAS A LOT LIKE ME. THE FIRST ME, I MEAN."

"The original Bhaal was also an idiot?" Jaheira raised an eyebrow.

IMOEN USED TO PHRASE IT 'NON-ACADEMICALLY GIFTED.'

"In other words, you were a violent oaf."

I… SUPPOSE SO.

Anomen was still admiring Casomyr with something approaching reverence. Yet he found that he could not both wield it and exercise his clerical powers. He was, to his lasting regret, going to have to pass it on to one who could. He belonged with Keldorn's army in any case. He wrapped the blade in the Shadow Dragon's hide and turned to the party.

"I saw the army as Firkraag was coming in to land."

"Which one? I counted four at least," replied Jaheira curtly. "And none of them undead, which means there's a fifth out there somewhere."

"The banners of the force to the east belong to the human rulers of Tethir," Coran noted. "It looks like they're headed toward Saradush but I doubt they'll fight when they get there. The force besieging the city is much larger and they have fire giants."

THE ARMY WITH THE GIANTS WILL BELONG TO YAGA-SHURA

Bhaal gestured with his paw ruefully. Several Bhaalspawn who were now part of himself had been killed either directly by the fire giant or as a consequence of his siege.

"Best stay well clear of them," muttered Jaheira. "The troops headed toward Amkethran had no banners. Mercenaries perhaps? I saw Keldorn's men marching south two miles south-west."

"It is my duty to return Casomyr to the Order," Anomen said, with just a hint of his old pride.

BUGGER THE ORDER! I NEED TO HELP THE SERVANT OF ALL FAITHS PUT A STOP TO THIS BLASTED PROPHECY AND GET THE SOULTAKER DAGGER WHILE I'M AT IT. CORAN, WE HAVE TO FIND VICONIA.

"Then it seems we must go our separate ways," replied Anomen with minimal regret. "Coran you have proven a brave companion and acquitted yourself with surprising honour… considering."

"And you have been surprisingly entertaining to journey with Sir Anomen… considering."

Both men turned to Jaheira, eyes hopeful. She fought down the urge to smack both of them with her stick. Whoever she left with, and for whatever reason, the men would assume that she was picking one of them over the other. When in truth she was picking neither. It was clear to her where her duty as a Harper lay, however.

"Bodhi's infestation of Skie's body is my fault," the druid replied heavily. "As is the power she now wields over Baldur's Gate. I must rectify this if I can. Even if it means allying myself with…" she prodded the skinless dog in its protruding ribs with her staff. "…Bhaal."

Anomen looked disappointed, but he bowed and set out in search of Sir Keldorn with Casomyr and the dragonhide tucked under his arm.

Left behind on the hillside, the party watched him go. Coran waved good humouredly, his green eyes flickering toward Jaheira with an optimism the druid found very annoying. Bhaal approached her and pawed her leg gingerly.

I AM SORRY. ABOUT KHALID'S DEATH. HE WAS A GOOD MAN.

"Silence monster!" Jaheira railed. "As if you ever cared about Khalid."

Bhaal sat back on his haunches, flattening the grass beneath his furless bottom. He glared up at the druid defiantly.

I HAVE DIED DOZENS OF TIMES IN COUNTLESS PAINFUL AND UNPLEASANT WAYS BUT NOTHING, _NOTHING_ CAME CLOSE TO BEING SKINNED ALIVE! IRENICUS WOULD HAVE KEPT ME IN THAT STATE INDEFINITELY. IT WAS KHALID WHO HAD THE DECENCY TO END IT, EVEN THOUGH HE MUST HAVE KNOWN WHAT IT WOULD COST HIM. SO BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY: I AM SORRY KHALID IS DEAD.

For once, Jaheira did believe him. Seeing what had happened to Freya in that dungeon had been what originally drove Arowan to Numbing Potions so long ago. She nodded grimly and said no more on the subject.

"Any ideas how we find Viconia?"

The others shook their heads. With a resigned sigh, Jaheira began to lead the way through the wilds to track down Viconia, Sarevok and Rasaad but Tethir was huge and the odds of running into the trio seemed slim indeed.

* * *

* * *

It was midway through Jaheira and Coran's second day of wandering aimlessly. The pair of them had settled down for lunch and the elf was just telling Jaheira a rather pointed tale about a widow who found solace in the arms of a roguish adventurer when Bhaal's ears pricked up.

THIS WAY!

"What are you yapping about rat-dog?" groaned Jaheira, as Coran spooned some stew into a bowl to take with him.

NO TIME FOR THAT, WE'LL MISS THEM. HURRY!

Bhaal was already scampering down the path, looking back and waiting for them to follow.

"We just came from that way!" Coran cried exasperatedly.

YEAH BUT VICONIA, RASAAD AND SAREVOK HAVE SHOWN UP THERE NOW! THEY JUST KILLED ONE OF ME!

Jaheira and Coran sprang into action at this, grabbing their packs and weapons and took off down the path at a run. Their quarry were not very close, they were running after Bhaal for some time before they came upon them.

They found Viconia and Rasaad a short way up a mountain, in fighting stances with spells readied. At their feet were scattered mounds of shimmering golden powder. Sarevok had his sword raised threateningly over a cowering foe. Its huge eyes gazed up at him in mute appeal, its tiny paws trembled.

"Is that… a chinchilla?" Coran cocked his head to one side. He was vaguely familiar with the furry, nocturnal spheres. Some of his lady friends back in Baldur's Gate kept them as pets.

Sarevok's party suddenly looked rather embarrassed. The warrior lowered his sword and coughed.

"It is tougher than it looks," he mumbled.

The chinchilla brightened, unable to believe its luck at having been spared and was just about to amble away down the path when it was met with a horrible sight. Even in his diminished form, the skinless dog was four times the chinchilla's size. It froze in shock at the bulging eyes and exposed muscles of the monstrosity before it, and in that moment Bhaal's teeth snapped shut over its jugular.

Chinchilla exploded in a shower of golden dust.

BUGGER! I'D FORGOTTEN IT WAS GOING TO DO THAT!

Bhaal choked, spitting golden flakes onto the mountainside. The two parties surveyed each other. Sarevok and Coran were eyeing each other with dislike, as were Jaheira and Viconia. It was not at all a happy reunion for even Rasaad had some residual bad blood with Coran and Jaheira, left over from his ill-fated romance with Arowan.

"What are you doing here?" spat Viconia.

"I have come to aid you in defeating the Adversary." Jaheira's reply was rather stiff.

"I know not how you returned to life but I do not desire your 'aid!' Begone before I send you back to the grave, mongrel!"

"We are in no position to turn down powerful allies," Sarevok reminded her repressively, "But tell me Jaheira. Now that you too have tasted the cold embrace of death and returned, are you an abomination like me?"

"Rasaad! Er… long time no see. Crazy that Arrow turned out to be the Adversary!" Coran summarized awkwardly. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

"No. I did not."

The elfin thief grinned up at the much larger human monk, who wore an expression that suggested he was thinking of cracking open his skull like a walnut. Coran shrugged disarmingly.

EXCUSE ME!

Bhaal sauntered into the middle of the circle and sat on his haunches indignantly. Last time Rasaad and Viconia had seen Bhaal he had struck them with paralyzing god-terror, but then he had been several storeys high. Now they simply stared in revulsion.

DID YOU MISS ME?

* * *

* * *

It took a while for the party to catch each other up on the events since Irenicus's downfall. They continued to walk toward Yaga-Shura's temple as they talked, encountering guards along the way but managing to avoid the attention of the fire giants by keeping below the treeline.

By the time the temple was in sight they were too fatigued for the inevitable fight, and found a glade in which they risked lighting a small fire. There was so much smoke and sulphur on this mountain anyway it seemed unlikely that anyone would notice.

Having had time to digest and process all the really important information, they were only just stopping to consider why Bhaal had killed the chinchilla on sight. He refused to answer any questions about it, but one by one it dawned on them until the whole party were thinking the same thing.

"That chinchilla was a Bhaalspawn!" Rasaad was the first to broach the elephant in the room. He had speared a sausage on the end of his eating knife and was waving it at Bhaal accusingly.

NO IT WASN'T.

"It was," Viconia snickered. "It dusted when it died. Golden dust. That's _your_ trademark Bhaal."

COULD HAVE BEEN ANY GOD'S CHILD.

"But it wasn't. It was one of yours," Jaheira was smirking. Bhaal winced and tried to hide behind Coran's shins.

WAS NOT.

Bhaal curled up sulkily, burying his fleshless muzzle into his flank and pretended to ignore them, even when Coran waved a juicy sausage tantalizingly in front of his nose. Sarevok watched the dog with a mixture of fascination and unease. When Bhaal had materialized in the Twofold Temple he had been part of the entity very briefly. It seemed all too probable that he was looking at his own eventual fate.

"When we stumbled upon it, it said, and I quote: 'We've been discovered my Bhaalspawn friends. Fight! Fiiiiight!'" recalled Sarevok.

YOU ARE ME SAREVOK. OR AT LEAST, YOU VERY SOON WILL BE. IF I FATHERED A RODENT THEN SO DID YOU. YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONSIDER SHUTTING THE FUCK UP, IS ALL I'M SAYING.

Drow and half-elf caught each other's eye and, perhaps for the first time in their turbulent acquaintance, they found something to bond over.

"We came across one of your priestesses, Bhaal," Viconia told him conversationally. "Nyalee tells us you made a prototype Bhaalspawn. One that was at no risk of becoming too powerful. Said it bred in the wild and it took Amelyssan years to exterminate the 'little rats.' It never occurred to me that she was speaking literally."

IT WASN'T MY FAULT!

Bhaal yelped and Jaheira doubled over with laughter.

"You mean it is true? Merely becoming the god of murder was not sufficiently depraved for you?" she snorted, with both disgust and mirth. "You also had relations with a… with a _rat?"_

IT WASN'T A RAT!

"Are you seriously suggesting that there is a moral distinction between mating with a rat and a chinchilla?"

AMELYSSAN DID IT!

"Amelyssan mounted a rodent and…" Viconia mimed the action with her hands. Jaheira looked as though she might crack a rib.

SHE GOT ME ROARING DRUNK!

The party howled with laughter. Bhaal snatched a sausage that Rasaad had been about to bite into and scuttled away with it behind Coran, glowering resentfully. His best friend, however, was of no help to him now.

"Mate, I have been roaring drunk many, many times and beer-goggles have led me into arms I might otherwise have found unappealing," Coran confessed, "But never once have I looked at the tavern rats creeping about under the bar and thought; 'Yeah, I'd go for that!'"

THANKS CORAN. NICE TO KNOW I CAN RELY ON YOU.

"Don't you dare feel hard done to!" Coran flipped. "All that grief you gave me about Lanfear! At least the wolfwere was in human form at the time. At least I _thought_ I was making love to a person! As opposed to deliberately humping a chinchilla!"

CORAN…

"No! I will never look at you the same way again!" he half-yelled, half-laughed. "You boned a _rodent!_ All the time we were travelling the Sword Coast with Minsc, were you secretly lusting after Boo?"

DON'T BE REVOLTING!

"You don't get to say that! You never get to say that, ever again!"

Bhaal skittered around in an agitated way, then squatted down and whined.

AMELYSSAN IS MY HIGH PRIESTESS, THE BHAALSPAWN WERE HER IDEA. THE CHINCHILLA WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SORT OF TRIAL RUN. NO DANGER OF IT BECOMING A THREAT, YOU SEE? SHE GOT ME VERY DRUNK AND CONVINCED ME IT WAS A GOOD IDEA. SO I TRANSFORMED INTO A CHINCHILLA AND… AND.. WE WERE THE ONLY ONES WHO WERE SUPPOSED TO KNOW!

"But it got away," smirked Jaheira.

"I suppose the thing we fought was one of its descendants?" asked Rasaad.

ONE OF MANY. THERE ARE A LOT OF CHINCHILLAS RUNNING AROUND IN MY SKULL. EVERY SO OFTEN I GET A MILD URGE TO GNAW ON HAY.

"I've never seen you try to do that," Coran observed. "Although I did catch you suckling that one time because of all the Bhaalspawn who died as babies."

YEAH, WELL… THAT URGE IS A LOT STRONGER. I WAS ALWAYS INTERESTED IN TITS.

"Enough! Repugnant beast!" snapped Jaheira. "I'm going to bed."

Rasaad and Viconia nodded and turned into their own tent, the drow still chuckling under her breath. Coran watched Jaheira's tent flap wistfully as Bhaal flickered and popped back into the Abyss, though not before taking care to piss on Sarevok's sleeping bag while his wayward son wasn't watching.


	19. Fire Giants

Dawn came, staining the fire giants' crimson mountain in a fierce, orange light. The party had almost grown used to the smell of sulphur. Jaheira was the first up and was just ripping apart some bread for their breakfast so that they could make an early start, when Coran emerged from his tent.

With a casualness that suggested habit, he pulled out a dagger and held his sliced up arm to the Girdle of Femininity.

"Desist!" Jaheira snapped.

"I was just summoning Bhaal," the elf replied, bemused.

"What for? Do we need Bhaal right now? Is he likely to be able to contribute anything to our current endeavour?"

The druid pressed a tin cup full of tepid tea into Coran's hands. He sipped it without enthusiasm. Jaheira lifted his mutilated wrist to inspect it, and attempted a healing spell. A few of the more recent lines faded, but most of them were too old now and would stay with him for the remainder of his life.

"This is not healthy, Coran."

"Listen, Jaheira, I know you don't like Bhaal much," he began placatingly.

"Are you _listening_ to yourself?!"

Coran sighed and ran his hand through his hair. There was no denying that she had a point. The events of the last few years had played hell with his sanity, as the rope scar on his neck would testify forever. Yet he was not convinced that he was any more susceptible to this than the rest of them.

"An ordinary response to an extraordinary situation…" he mumbled.

"What?" snapped Jaheira.

"Back in Baldur's Gate, after the war with Caelar, some of the veterans had trouble readjusting," Coran explained. "They'd have waking flashbacks and vivid nightmares. Alternate between emotional detachment and uncontrollable anger. Madness of a sort, only they weren't mad. Not really. The clerics of Ilmater described it as a normal reaction to an abnormal situation. We are all in an abnormal situation now and we're just doing what we have to, to carry on."

He looked at her, emerald eyes slightly unhinged. Something about him gave Jaheira the impression of a drunken man teetering on the brink of a very high cliff.

"We're all in an abnormal situation now, Jaheira. Is it not natural to cling to whatever comfort we can find?"

Jaheira glared at him appraisingly. Rasaad was getting up now, yawning and stretching his long muscles. He rubbed the back of his thick neck, shirtless, nodded to them as politely as he could bring himself to, and picked up his share of the bread. The druid turned back to the elf.

"I am not going to have sex with you. Now or ever. Give it up Coran."

Rasaad choked on his bread, to Jaheira's mild satisfaction.

"I'm vulnerable. You could rescue me!" Coran suggested, with a flicker of a grin.

"Nope." Jaheira replied flatly.

"You could distract me from Bhaal?"

"How about if you try to slice your arm again for no good reason I will tie you up and drag you into the temple? Has it occurred to you, Coran, that if Bhaal were really your friend he would not ask you to harm yourself?"

"I think that's a matter of perspective," he smiled weakly. "For a being who has been murdered as many times as he has, I'm not sure a self-inflicted flesh wound even register as 'harm.'"

"He should be used to that as the god of murder!" Jaheira retorted.

Rasaad, who no longer needed to feign deafness now that the conversation had moved away from more personal matters chose this moment to intercede with his theological insight.

"Not at all. Most mortals who ascend to godhood have, by definition, never died," he pondered. "Until Cyric slew Bhaal on Boareskyr Bridge, the Lord of Murder had only experienced one side of his own portfolio. For a god such a state of affairs must be unsatisfactory… Perhaps I shall meditate upon this."

"You shall not! There's no time. Where are Viconia and Sarevok?" Jaheira snapped.

Rasaad coaxed his reluctant lover out of bed, ignoring her threats and glowering. Sarevok, it transpired, had been up for hours scouting the entrance to Yaga-Shura's temple. By the time he returned, his father's sword was dripping with blood, he had already taken out the human guards at the entrance.

"There are fire giants in there," he informed them. "Not a lot. Probably less than usual, since they are besieging Saradush, but definitely more than one."

* * *

* * *

The first thing that struck them about Yaga-Shura's temple was the temperature. A wall of heat, like nothing they had ever experienced, smacked them as they crossed the threshold and at first they were fighting almost blinded as it stung their eyes and seared their lungs. It was emanating from pools of lava, bubbling at intervals in the tiled floor.

"Shar's teeth! Avernus itself was not so hot as this!" Viconia complained loudly.

Three fire giants assaulted them at once. The first lunged at Rasaad with an open fist, but he was too slow for the monk, who dodged the hand with ease. Coran shot it through the eye, reminding Rasaad of another temple and another vast enemy they had fought together. The elf had saved his life then, though he still bore the scars from where Cyric's dragon had half-melted his legs. Damned if he was about to let that happen twice.

Coran was admiring his own shot with a pleased expression, when a club slammed into his flank. His ribs cracked and he was lifted clean off his feet. He might have landed in one of the lava pools were it not for Jaheira's vines which caught him mid air and held him suspended above the pool like a spit roast.

Sarevok cut the hamstrings of one of the giants with a sweep of his sword, only just making it out of the way before it fell. The sound it made as it hit the ground shook the floor, and the Bhaalspawn was quick to finish it off with a sword through the throat.

For all his skill, size matters, and Rasaad knew that there was only one target for his punch that could make a real impact. The last surviving giant let out an 'oomph' as the monk's fist landed between his legs. Its eyes crossed and its knees buckled, leaving Viconia free to bludgeon it about the back of the head. Between them, monk and cleric pummelled it to death.

"This way!" cried Sarevok, gesturing up a flight of steps with his sword, but before they could race up them Coran managed to splutter out the word:

"Traps!"

Rasaad, who had some skill at detecting traps but none at all at disarming them, squinted up the steps.

"He is correct," the monk confirmed, unhelpfully.

Gently, Jaheira lowered Coran to the ground and healed him. The elf gave her the soppiest look as she tended him, and she had to suppress the urge to throttle him herself. This man made Anomen's clumsy attentions look subtle by comparison. At least he had contented himself to admire her from afar and was no longer making comments. He would always hold out hope for a 'maybe,' but a no was a no.

There was a break while Coran cautiously proceeded up the stairs, his clever fingers working fast to disarm a series of deadly traps (most of which involved lava). They drank their water or poured it over their heads in a futile effort to cool down. Rasaad had removed his shirt again, and his body was glistening with sweat, but it was Sarevok who was suffering most in full armour.

"Those feeble peasants in Saradush had better appreciate this," he muttered grouchily.

"The people of Saradush appreciate everything you do," noted Rasaad, and with only a hint of envy he added to Jaheira: "The Hero of Saradush they call him."

"You Sarevok? The _Hero_ of anything?" sneered Jaheira.

Coran looked back from the trap he was unpicking with a faintly troubled expression. 'Hero of Baldur's Gate' had been what they'd called Freya. Freya had hated Sarevok, and they had spent much of their time together hunting him down. Yet brother and sister were the same Bhaal, and it seemed that the two had more in common than he'd have liked to believe.

His distraction cost him. There was an ominous whirring of tiny gears and the elf launched himself down the stairs so forcefully that he broke his ankle upon landing and had to be healed again. Fifty evil little fire darts crisscrossed above the staircase like mad flies.

"I think that was the last trap," the elf groaned. "But there's a magical barrier at the end of the hall. Looks like a wardstone mechanism. There are four inserts, we'd have to find them and put them into the wall in the correct order."

"What happens if we place them in the wrong order?" asked Sarevok.

Coran laughed dryly.

"You didn't do much freelance adventuring, I take it?"

"If you mean; did I plunder my way through every graveyard from Nashkel to Baldur's Gate, then no thief I did not. I had more important things to do."

"Ha! All work and no play. No wonder you're such a miserable devil!" Coran grinned. "If we get it wrong it will activate a defence mechanism. Probably something explosive. We can bypass all their security though, if we can figure out where the back door is."

Sarevok looked at him quizzically through golden eyes. The elf shrugged.

"People live in these places," Coran explained. "Can you imagine having to retrieve the wardstones every time one of the guards needs to answer a call of nature? Not to mention the cleaners, the porters, the poor chap whose job it is to keep the lava pits from crusting over… they'd have to perform the wards ritual a hundred times a day! There will be a tradesman's entrance somewhere. Trust me."

"Come to think of it the Iron Throne had something similar," Sarevok mused. "It was accessible via the sewers for unofficial access."

"I know," grinned Coran. Sarevok glowered at him.

Only he could not hold a grudge against Coran for aiding Freya in defeating him, not really. There was no question that he, Sarevok, had been the aggressor. Though the Bitch of Baldur's Gate had been relentless in her pursuit of him, the fact that he had not obliterated her instead was certainly not for lack of trying.

"Fire giants!" yelled Rasaad. "Where in Selune's name did they come from?"

Five of them this time, roaring furiously as they charged down the hall at them, clubs raised. Coran shot one of them through his open mouth before they reached the party. The vast man skidded to the ground, clutching his throat and choking hopelessly on his own blood.

As Sarevok and Rasaad charged at them and Viconia prepped her healing spells, Coran whispered to Jaheira urgently:

"Vine the ankles of the one on the far left, quickly!"

He ran full throttle at the giant he had pointed out, and Jaheira had no choice but to do as he suggested if she did not want to see him flattened. The vines were not strong enough to hold a giant, but she lost her balance temporarily, stumbling stroppily and tearing them from the floor as though they were weeds. Coran reached the brickwork behind them just in time to see a secret door sliding shut

Four against one, the party were hopelessly outmatched and it was taking all of Jaheira and Viconia's combined healing spells just to keep them alive.

"Archer! Whenever you're ready!" growled Sarevok pointedly, cutting off one of the fire giants' chunky fingers. With a roar of rage the brute swiped at him, sending him flying into the opposite wall.

"Just a minute!" Coran called back. He was running over the stones with his fingers trying to find the release mechanism, "Keep her busy!"

Rasaad was at a stalemate with his two giants. They were too slow and clumsy to kick him or squash him with their clubs but without a weapon he was unable to make much impact against their bulk. There was no use repeating his blow to the groin. These giants were female. Viconia's heart was in her mouth as she watched, for he had to be lucky every time. The red-headed giants only had to be lucky once.

"Got it!" yelled Coran. "Jaheira, summon some beasts to distract them! This way!"

Jaheira summoned bears and wolves, which were of no use against giants. They could only nip at their shins whereas the giants could crush their skulls with a single blow. It distracted them long enough, however, for the party to run past them and into the revealed tunnel.

"Tradesman's entrance!" Coran laughed exhilarated. He let the door slide shut and then pulled a single gear out of the release mechanism and pocketed it. They could hear the giants pounding furiously on the other side but they could not reach the party.

The temple itself was empty and deathly quiet. Those five guards who had come pouring out must have been all that remained. Smouldering on a brazier was a beating heart wreathed in flames. Very carefully, Sarevok pushed it off with his sword and the flames extinguished but the heart continued to beat. He lifted it. It was very hot and difficult to handle without first wrapping it in heavy cloths.

"Got it! Let's go!" said Coran.

"No, we need the witch Nyalee's heart as well," frowned Sarevok. "We cannot extinguish it without her."

"Are we certain of that?" asked Viconia. She was roasting and uncomfortable and she was not the only one. The whole party were desperate to get out of this sweltering temple. Sarevok hacked the heart with his blade to no effect. Coran placed it at one end of the room and shot it with an ice arrow. Jaheira and Viconia both tried some spells. Nothing seemed to dent it.

"Here Rasaad; I'll hold it and you run up and kick it!" Viconia suggested.

She placed it on the ground holding it steady with her hand and Rasaad took a run up. At the last second the drow snatched it away. The monk's swinging foot continued to rise and for a moment he lost his balance. He was able to regain it before he fell but he stumbled and his arms made an undignified windmill.

_Squeak, squeak, squeak!_

Viconia's laughter filled the silent fire temple.

"She got you!" Sarevok chuckled.

"Thank the goddess I have you, Viconia, to keep me from ever falling into complacency," Rasaad replied sourly.


	20. Ehlastra

Unable to destroy Yaga-Shura's heart by their own means, the party had no choice but to search on for Nyalee's.

"Why keep his heart here, that's what I don't understand. Wouldn't it be safer to just pitch it off a boat halfway out to sea? Nobody would ever find it then," Coran murmured as he searched the statues for hidden compartments. He found one, but all it yielded was a pile of gold and a pair of rubies. "For you, Viconia, they match your eyes."

Rasaad looked like he was sucking a lemon, but Viconia sneered at the offering.

"Tiddly little things they are. Whatever happened to the ruby Freya gave to Safana? Now _that_ was a real bauble!"

Coran swallowed. He knew the one.

"The Heart of the Basilisk? Queen Ellesime has it. It was in the cabin Safana and I shared. My brethren found it and offered to send it back to me but… I couldn't bear to have it around."

"Bah. Weak, sentimental male!" Viconia spat. "Have you found Nyalee's heart yet?"

"There's some sort of mechanism in this statue," Coran muttered, tongue poking out as he stuck his finger up a statue-giant's gleaming bronze bottom. Just… a little… further…"

There was a click and a whizzing of tiny gears. Slowly the belly of the giant statue wound open and out climbed a dishevelled and angry looking woman. She wore nothing but a strappy bikini and she looked furious.

"You there! Elf! Get me out of here!" she demanded.

"Not so fast!" Jaheira barked, her spear at the woman's throat. "Who are you, and how came you to be here?"

The woman glared at her with cold, blue eyes. Her skin was unnaturally pale and her hair almost white and braided. It was an appearance which contrasted oddly with the searing heat and blazing furnaces of their surroundings.

"I should cut out your tongue for your impertinence, but since I have no weapon and you did save my life," she began, "I am Ehlastra, a warrior from the northern lands. I had heard the legends of Yaga-Shura, a child born unto Bhaal and a giantess. I came to this place to see if the legends were true."

"You came to slay Yaga-Shura? Alone?" Rasaad asked, impressed.

"No, you simple fool!" she snapped. "I came to join him and offer my sword to his service, to follow the mighty giant as his army laid waste to the southlands!"

Rasaad looked suddenly less impressed.

"I wanted to become part of his unstoppable war machine, to revel in the slaughter, to have my blade drip with the blood of all those Yaga-Shura crushed beneath his mighty boot!"

"Isn't poking them with your sword _after_ they've been crushed by the giant's boot a little redundant?" Jaheira asked sardonically.

"You are a short-sighted fool just like the fire giants in this temple!" Ehlastra snarled. "They recognized my warrior skills but saw me only as a potential mate for Yaga-Shura, a chance for him to further spread Bhaal's seed."

There was a horrified silence. Horrified and… bemused.

"I thought you said the mother had to be a giantess in these pairings?" Rasaad whispered to Viconia. The drow shook her head, utterly flummoxed.

"I'm as confused as you are," she shrugged quietly.

Meanwhile Sarevok was whispering to Jaheira.

"Why would fire giants want their next generation of leaders to be half-human?" he frowned. "It doesn't make any sense."

Ehlastra was talking on, almost to herself.

"But they are dead and I yet live. My only regret is that I could not kill Yaga-Shura's followers with my own hands. I have nothing else to say on the matter," she concluded. "I heard you searching for something when you found me. Yaga-Shura is obsessed with a box he keeps under his bed if that is of any use to you."

"Where is his bed?" asked Sarevok urgently.

"I don't know."

"You don't know where his bed is?"

"If you could hear us from in there why did you not call for help?" Rasaad asked suspiciously.

Ehlastra looked from one party member's face to the next, her expression unreadable. Then she bolted without a backward glance. They heard her feet padding back the way they had come, and her cursing shriek when she realised that Coran had remove the gears controlling the door.

"What do we do about her?" Coran asked. Rasaad looked torn.

"Nothing," replied Sarevok. "Once we open that door, she will either fight with the surviving giants or flee. Then we will know."

Yaga-Shura's bed was not difficult to find, it was a huge slab draped in red satin. Coran had to crawl all the way under it on his belly to retrieve the box. Inside was a human heart, still pulsing and glistening wetly. How it was kept alive must be down to the 'old tricks' Nyalee mentioned.

They headed back the way they had come. Ehlastra was not waiting in the dead-end corridor. Coran slipped the gear back into the doors and four fire giants spilled through it the second it opened. The party were ready for them. Rasaad leapt up and plunged his thumbs into the nearest one's eye sockets with a horrible splut. She stumbled forward, flailing, onto Viconia's flaming sword. Sarevok plunged Bhaal's old sword into the second one's heart and Jaheira charmed the third giant into attacking the fourth one.

Leaving the two survivors to slog it out, they ran from the temple and back into the safety of the trees, the hearts safely stowed away in their packs. Sarevok could feel Yaga-Shura's pounding through his and he wondered if the giant could sense that it was in hostile hands.

"Was Ehlastra really Yaga-Shura's captive do you suppose?" asked Rasaad, looking troubled. It was belatedly occurring to him how cruel their discussion of her honesty must have been were she telling the truth.

"Nah, doubt it," shrugged Coran breezily. "Now let's go find this Nyalee."

* * *

* * *

That night Rasaad watched Viconia sleeping in the crook of his arm. The limb was falling asleep but it was not this alone which kept him awake. Through all of the madness since he had been forced to slay his own brother, she had been the one constant. She was his rock. He could not continue without her to give him direction and yet…

He eased himself out from under her and stepped outside into the moonlight. Selune was but a sickle crescent tonight, and her presence gave him scarce comfort when he had just spent himself in the arms of a servant of Shar.

He could not shake the memory of those temple steps where the shades had appeared. Arowan had, for a moment, faltered.

She was far deeper in the grip of Numbing Potions than Gamaz had ever been. Once she had been addicted and brought back, and back she might have stayed had it not been for Dorn and Anomen. His fist clenched at the thought of the fallen ranger.

Could he kill her? In the end it might come to that. Though he supposed that it would be Viconia who would have to commit the act itself.

"It is too late for Arowan," he justified himself to the goddess above. "Even Jaheira can see that."

There at least he could have some certainty. There at least he was on sure moral ground. The ranger would not _want_ to be brought back after everything she had become even if such a thing were possible. He looked up doubtfully at the sky and whispered.

"But was it really too late for Gamaz?"

He found no reply save for the judgemental silence of the stars.

* * *

* * *

Bhaal's temple loomed out of the swamp, but somehow the ruin looked less intimidating second time around. As they climbed the steps to find Nyalee, it became apparent that the shades had returned.

The new additions to their party had been warned. Jaheira looked Khalid's apparition straight in the eye and barely flinched. Coran, on the other hand, kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He could not block out their voices, however.

"You seem to be under the misapprehension that this gloominess gives you a sort of brooding sex appeal. It doesn't."

Safana's voice rang down the steps as cutting as she had been in life.

"Cheer up, you miserable bugger!" Freya added in a friendly bellow. Coran flinched and stared more determinedly downward than ever. Freya's shade turned to Safana and Khalid. "The way he mopes you'd think _he_ was the one who had been skinned alive, not me."

"Or fed to a wolfwere. I cannot fathom why you didn't kill that monster when you had the chance, you stupid great mutt!"

"Don't blame me. It's Coran's fault," grinned Freya. "If it weren't for him you'd never have met Lanfear and you'd still be here… and I was doing just fine on my own until he turned up."

Coran started shaking. To his shock, Jaheira smacked him about the shins with her staff. Khalid's ethereal presence seemed to have put her into a bad mood.

"Idiot elf! You know that isn't really them," she chided. "They don't even _sound_ like them. I distinctly heard Freya's shade use multi-syllable words!"

"Harsh," muttered ghost-Freya.

"True," pointed out shade-Safana, fairly.

Coran looked up at them. They weren't really his friends, he knew they weren't, and yet they looked just like them and he so badly wanted to pretend. His feet were moving of their own accord, but so were his hands. Reflexively, he pulled out the Girdle of Femininity and let a drop of his own blood spill onto it.

"Bhaal?" he whispered.

The shades laughed but their mirth soon turned into frozen shock. They were staring in disbelief at a miniature, skinless hound trotting up the stairs toward them looking this way and that with curious disapproval. The spirits of this temple knew the Lord of Murder when they saw him.

He glared up at the three shades which still bore the faces of Freya, Khalid and Safana.

IF THIS IS AN ATTEMPT AT HUMOUR, IT IS IN EXTREMELY POOR TASTE.

The shades dissolved over each other in their haste to get away, their faces melting into a formless grey smoke. Bhaal watched them go dispassionately and trotted up the temple steps.

THIS PLACE HAS REALLY GONE TO THE DOGS.

Unlike last time, when they entered the temple the skeletons did not attack. They simply dropped to one bony knee as the horrifying chihuahua passed unperturbed.

"Master… we have waited for you for so long!" one finally dared to cry in a plaintive rattle. Bhaal looked faintly surprised.

RELGRIN? IS THAT YOU?

"We were loyal! We stayed after your… departure. We have awaited your return for so long… so long…"

COULDN'T HAVE CLEANED UP A BIT WHILE YOU WERE WAITING COULD YOU? I'M KNEE DEEP IN MOSS HERE!

"Bhaal!" cried Coran, outraged at this unfathomable ingratitude. Then he remembered what sort of people Bhaal cultists generally were and shut his mouth.

Immediately the skeleton began to scrub the floor with the hem of his robe. It was ineffective. There was enough moss here to fully coat an elephant's shawl, but Bhaal made no effort to dissuade him.

The fleshless apparition seemed to draw some residual power from the temple. Enough to swell not to the full size of a proper sacrifice but at least to the proportions of a regular wolf. He snapped his teeth and when he spoke his voice reverberated from the dripping pillars and statues.

NYALEE! WHAT'S WITH STEALING A BHAALSPAWN TO RAISE INSTEAD OF SACRIFICING ME LIKE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO?

The hunched old woman shuffled out from between the pillars. Like Madele and Erowan she did not seem nearly so intimidated by the presence of Bhaal as one might suppose. Coran found himself wondering what his relationship with his High Priests and Priestesses had been like before his fall. The Seldarine were all pomp and ancient ceremony. Even his own patron goddess Hanali was a remote, mystical figure. He had never envisaged any sort of faith being so.. _casual._

YOU HAVE SOME EXPLAINING TO DO, NYALEE!

"Master has come… come he has!" Nyalee tittered. "Master's new avatar is very ugly, yes it is. Master looks like a horse's anus."

Bhaal stopped short, looking rather affronted.

I THOUGHT IT WAS QUITE INTIMIDATING?

"The Slayer was better. Oh yes… Nyalee remembers. Better it was."

REALLY? MADELE THOUGHT THE WHOLE LACERATED CORPSE THING MADE IT LOOK LIKE I WAS TRYING TOO HARD.

"Not that Master cares for poor old Nyalee's opinion. Not when he is having Erowan to ask… _The tea-lady_ of all people…" Nyalee sniffed.

EH?

"Appearing to Erowan, the Master was, but not to lonely old Nyalee, even though poor, sad Nyalee kept his temple safe from intruders for so long. Unhappy Nyalee… Her god left her to rot…"

Bhaal hunkered down and whined.

OH COME ON NYALEE, DON'T BE LIKE THAT…

"I have heard enough of this nonsense!" snapped Jaheira. "Give the old woman the hearts! Let us quench Yaga-Shura's and be done with this rancid place!"

Nyalee perked up. Her crocodile tears dried and a toothless grin replaced them. She scurried forward eagerly, clawed hands outstretched, having apparently already lost interest in the reappearance of her god. Bhaal sighed and sloped after her. At least Yaga-Shura would be dead soon. One Bhaalspawn closer to his renaissance.


	21. Coran's Haircut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Writer's Note: Hi all. Not died or given up on the story, just ill and struggling a bit. Hopefully over Christmas I will have time to get the story finished or close-to!_
> 
>   
> 

"Oh! Tis Nyalee's heart, it is! The Servant of all Faiths and the Spawn-Child have found Nyalee's poor heart and… yes. This be the boy's heart as well. Gives Nyalee her heart and she will extinguish the boy's as well, oh yes, she will!"

She carried her own beating organ to Bhaal's altar and laid down upon it, placing her heart over her chest where what could only be an empty cavity currently lay hollow. Slowly, still beating it sunk back into her body. Nyalee flopped her head sideways on the grimy altar, her grey hair tumbling down and sighed.

"Yes… yes at last. Nyalee has her heart. Nyalee had forgotten how it feels to have a heart, she had. So many old memories. It makes Nyalee sad."

She picked up Yaga-Shura's hot, pounding heart and dropped it unceremoniously from a temple window into the swamp water below. It went out with a hiss and sank.

"And there… it be done. A simple thing, it is. The boy's heart is cold now. As cold as his mother's old heart…"

IT IS FOR THE BEST NYALEE.

A tepid, pungent breeze swept from the swamp and rustled the old witch's ragged skirts. A thought struck Bhaal's former priestess and her eyes opened wide.

"You… you will hurt my boy won't you?" Nyalee suddenly sat bolt upright, clutching her restored heart and looking anxious. "No… No, what has Nyalee done? My poor boy, the Spawn-Child will hurt him. Nyalee must stop him!"

She called on her remaining powers, launching herself toward Sarevok, but found herself nothing but a harmless old lady, her clerical spells gone.

"What…?" she gasped.

SORRY NYALEE, CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT.

"But Nyalee was using the old ways. The old ways, she used! Surely her powers could not have come from a dead god!"

I AINT DEAD.

Her eyes turned to Bhaal, stinging with betrayal, but the skinless dog merely shook his head.

"Rot in the Abyss!" she screeched. "Regrets wasting her life on you, Nyalee does! Rank-amateur of a god you were. Amelyssan was right!"

She was no longer a threat to them, but without the lingering blessings of her half-dead god she could no longer repel the temple shades. They closed in upon her, taking the forms of mortals the party did not recognise. The ghosts of Nyalee's own distant past.

DON'T LET THEM HURT HER! STOP THEM!

Rasaad and Coran made to intervene, but the hunched old woman would not be helped. The shades fell on her in a mass of sucking formless mouths, misty cold filling her lungs and stilling her restored heart. By the time the party had wafted them away the old woman lay cold and lifeless on the temple floor. Bhaal hung his head for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Coran said quietly, patting Bhaal on the head.

I CAN'T HELP MY FOLLOWERS, YOU KNOW. NOT IF THEY DIE WHILE I'M IN THIS STATE. WHATEVER IS LEFT OF HER SOUL WILL BE AT THE MERCY OF THE OTHERS.

"The others?"

THE OTHER DEITIES. MY ENEMIES. I HAD A LOT OF THEM. IF SHE'S LUCKY SHE'LL EVENTUALLY JOIN THE WALL OF THE FAITHLESS OR BE SENT TO ONE OF THE HELLS.

"What did she mean?" the elf asked in a low voice, drawing Bhaal to one side as the party left the temple. He was keen to change the subject. If being sent to one of the hells was 'lucky' he didn't want to think too carefully about what _unlucky_ looked like. "What did Nyalee mean about you being an amateur god?"

Bhaal looked awkward. He glanced about the dripping swamp with bulging eyes to check that they weren't being overheard and said;

TO BE HONEST CORAN, I NEVER REALLY EXPECTED IT TO WORK. ASCENSION I MEAN. BANE AND MYRKUL WERE OBSESSED WITH THE IDEA. I JUST… I WENT ALONG WITH IT ALL BECAUSE…

"Because why?" Coran frowned.

BECAUSE JAHEIRA IS RIGHT I SUPPOSE. I WAS A VIOLENT OAF, FROM A LONG LINE OF VIOLENT OAFS AND I SURVIVED BY GUTTING OTHER VIOLENT OAFS. IT WAS THE ONLY LIFE I KNEW. BANE AND MYRKUL WERE STRONGER THAN ANY OTHER OUTFIT AROUND SO I STUCK WITH THEM, EVEN THOUGH THEY WERE CRAZY.

"They were?"

OF COURSE THEY WERE! THEY THOUGHT THEY COULD BECOME GODS!

Coran waited patiently while the cogs of Bhaal's brain caught up with his ears. The wolf put his tail between his legs sheepishly.

OH.

Bhaal hung back a little to let the rest of the party get ahead. Sarevok was marching forward with determined strides, mind set on getting to Yaga-Shura before the fall of Saradush. Viconia's eyes were darting this way and that. She had seen Arowan around here recently and could not be certain that the Adversary was gone.

Removed from the influence of his own temple, Bhaal shrank down to teacup-dog size and once more sought shelter in Coran's satchel.

BANE AND MYRKUL HAD ALL THESE GRAND PLANS. THEY'D CHOSEN THEIR AVATARS, SYMBOLS AND RITUALS WHILE THEY WERE STILL MORTAL. BANE CARRIED A DRAFT OF HIS OWN HOLY BOOK. MYRKUL HAD EVEN DESIGNED HIS PRIESTS' ROBES! THEY HAD GOLD LACE ON THE COLLARS.

Coran chuckled.

WHEREAS I DIDN'T BELIEVE IN IT UNTIL IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. TO TELL THE TRUTH, I DIDN'T REALLY BELIEVE IN THE PANTHEON AT ALL UNTIL I JOINED IT.

"An atheist-god?" Coran smiled. Despite knowing it was a bad idea, his fondness for Bhaal was something he simply couldn't help. "That does appeal to my love of the chaotic."

I DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE WHAT I WAS DOING, BUT I HAD A HELL OF A LOT OF POWER. MY CULT SORT OF GATHERED AROUND ME AND I JUST… LET THEM GET ON WITH IT I SUPPOSE.

"I had noticed the way your priestesses… er…" Coran wondered how to put it diplomatically.

HENPECK ME?

"Yes."

THEY RAN THE CULT, I NEVER PAID IT MUCH ATTENTION.

Coran paused. A frog was croaking loudly in the swamp. His boots were oozing pond weed and he suspected that there were leeches clinging to his ankles. He had a rope scar about his neck, a fortune and a padded asylum cell awaiting him in Baldur's Gate and a god in his satchel. He glanced at his reflection, he could just make it out in the murky water pooling about his feet.

"I need a haircut."

YEAH. YOU DO.

"Do gods need to get haircuts?" Coran murmured vaguely. This was too stupid a question even for Bhaal and the little canine did not dignify it with a response. "What's it like being a god?"

IT'S PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME. I'M NOT GOING TO LIE.

"But what is it _like?_ "

Bhaal popped his head out of the bag, looking thoughtful.

HOW WOULD YOU EXPLAIN WHAT BEING AN ELF IS LIKE TO A HOUSE CAT?

"Oh, thanks."

NO, I JUST MEAN… IT'S DIFFICULT TO EXPLAIN TO A MORTAL. TIME PASSES DIFFERENTLY. YOU DON'T _DO_ THINGS, AT LEAST NOT VERY OFTEN. BUT YOU SORT OF FEEL THE PRESENCE AND BELIEF OF YOUR PEOPLE. IT'S ALMOST LIKE HOVERING IN THAT COMFORTABLE STATE WHERE YOU'RE ALMOST CONSCIOUS JUST BEFORE YOU FALL ASLEEP. EVERY SO OFTEN A PARTICULARLY POWERFUL PRAYER GETS YOUR ATTENTION AND SNAPS YOU OUT OF IT.

"Sounds boring."

DON'T KNOCK IT TILL YOU'VE TRIED IT.

For a moment Coran allowed himself to consider it. If any mortal could become a god, he had as much potential as anybody. Only what would he be the god of? The immortal patron of misadventure and questionable fashion choices? He smiled and shook his head.

"Pass."

SUIT YOURSELF.

* * *

* * *

They made camp for the night. Viconia seemed to be in a very jumpy mood and even argued against lighting a fire. She had last seen Arowan in this area and was fretting that she might turn up again. The others, however, were hungry and cold and they insisted. Coran helped Sarevok to gather a pile of kindling and soon they had a friendly little blaze with a root-stew bubbling over it.

Jaheira and Rasaad were watching the fire, each lost in their own thoughts. They avoided speaking to each other, Coran noticed. A log cracked loudly and disintegrated, releasing a small shower of sparks. He was going to have to speak to one of them. The elf bit his lip. How far did he want to go?

Rasaad's scalp was very neat. Shiny and smooth like the cap of a toadstool. The man certainly knew his way around a razor and there was a certain roguish appeal to scalp tattoos. On the other hand, it was a high maintenance look. He'd have to shave every single day. And as for permanent tattoos, Coran wasn't the type to make that sort of lifelong commitment.

"Jaheira?" he said. "I would speak to you about something."

"Not now Coran," the druid sighed wearily. "I am not in the mood."

"You seem troubled my friend," said Rasaad, who still seemed to want to give the appearance of monkish serenity, no matter how superficial it had become. "May I offer you the wisdom of Selune?"

Viconia let out a disgusted snort but her criticism of the moon monk was half-hearted at most these days.

"How is Selune with scissors?" Coran mumbled. Rasaad looked at the elf blankly. He swallowed. "I need a haircut."

Jaheira perked up, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"I am no barber," Rasaad confessed. "Indeed it is many years since I had any hair and even then I did not trouble to style it on the streets of Calimport, but if you would like me to make the attempt…"

"I will do it!" Jaheira volunteered eagerly, hopping to her feet.

Nobody had scissors, only Sarevok's dagger. Coran perched himself self-consciously on a log, Bhaal sat at his feet eagerly, wagging his bald tail. Jaheira wrinkled her nose at him but was tolerating the little god for now. Just. Rasaad stopped pretending to meditate to watch the shearing, while Viconia cuddled up to the monk smiling openly. Even Sarevok wore a smirk.

Coran suddenly felt acutely aware that with Anomen gone, most of the party had it in for him a bit. Rasaad had been a rival for Arowan at one point and any friend of hers was an enemy of Viconia's. As for Sarevok…

His green eyes met Sarevok's golden and the demi-god's narrowed. Coran had not killed him the first time around, Freya had, but the elf had a big hand in it and they both knew it. As the larger man watched Jaheira wield his own dagger around his former enemy's face it was impossible to tell what was going through his mind.

Crrriiip. Crrriiip.

Coran watched out of the corner of his eye as his auburn hair fell from his head. He swallowed. Jaheira was evening it up, taking more off the long side and cutting it close near the back. The top was getting less attention.

As his new haircut took shape, the way that even Rasaad's lip was twitching did not fill him with confidence.

"Jaheira?"

"Hold still!" the druid retorted sharply, flicking the tip of his elfin ear. He grimaced.

Crriiip.

"There. Done!" Jaheira declared, surveying her own handiwork with satisfaction.

Coran looked down at his fallen hair. A large amount of it had landed on top of Bhaal, sticking to his damp, skinless flesh. It wasn't an improvement. It made him look like a carrion crawler which had burrowed through a haystack. It was not Bhaal's appearance which concerned him, however, but his own.

"How is it?" he asked, looking anxiously about the group.

His answer came in the form of laughter.


	22. Alorgoth's Invitation

Saradush was in a bad way by the time the party returned. The defenders had abandoned the outer walls and large sections of the city were on fire. Flaming catapult balls were billowing freely through the air and crashing explosively amongst the populace. The gate was holding thanks to the protection of a moat, but this would not prevent Yaga-Shura's army from reducing the inner city to rubble without ever setting foot inside. It seemed that they had arrived in the nick of time.

"We cannot assault an army of this size directly," Viconia observed coolly. "Didn't think this through did you, hairless ones?"

"We don't need to destroy them all, only Yaga-Shura," Sarevok replied, eyes narrowed to cunning little slits. "They are serving a demi-god, that is their only reason to be here. Cut off the head and all but his most fanatical followers will panic and scatter."

"Like _your_ followers did?" Jaheira asked snidely.

"Precisely."

"How will we even find Yaga-Shura?" asked Rasaad.

"He'll be the biggest fire giant with the fanciest armour," snapped Coran, whose new haircut had put him in a grouchy mood. "He can't be that difficult to spot."

And he wasn't. The party scanned the battlefield from a high vantage point for barely ten minutes before Coran and Rasaad spotted him at the same time. They were both accustomed to picking targets out of a crowd.

Yaga-Shura strutted, grinning, amongst his admiring followers, laughing at the screams of terror from inside the city and swigging from a bucket-like tankard of ale. At first finding their target availed the party little, for there were a great many soldiers between him and them.

After two hours of failing to come up with a plan, while Sarevok grew increasingly frustrated, a horn blasted in the distance.

"That's a giant's horn," Viconia hissed. They'd heard them often enough while they were trapped in the besieged city to recognise the noise. "It sounded urgent. We should run, they must have spotted us."

"Don't speak rubbish, it's coming from the other side of the city!" Sarevok growled.

He craned his neck, but they were not high enough to glimpse what was going on the other side of the settlement. Even those inside the city would be able to see little beyond the rising smoke unless they were very close to the action.

Sure enough the giants were moving, toward the other side of the walls. What they could see beyond it, the party had no idea, but as soon as Yaga-Shura's men got within line of sight they switched from marching to running toward the problem.

Soon the fire giants were even abandoning the catapults to regroup on the other side of the city walls.

"It must be the Order of the Radiant Heart!" Coran called excitedly. "Anomen and Keldorn are here!"

"Praise Selune!" Rasaad cried.

Distant yells and clangs suggested that a battle was commencing on the other side of the city, but Yaga-Shura showed no inclination to join it. When his men came to entreat him to help them he merely shook his head, and gestured to the drawbridge of Saradush.

"What is he doing?" Coran frowned.

"Guarding the door," Sarevok grinned nastily. "He wants to make absolutely sure that none of the other Bhaalspawn make a break for it."

The battle, it seemed, was not going well for Yaga-Shura. More and more the forces from their side of the city were depleted until only the demi-god himself and two bodyguards remained.

Bleeding and limping, a giant emerged from behind the wall and approached Yaga-Shura. From a distance it seemed as though he was begging his master to forget the city and come and lead his forces in person. Yaga-Shura responded by crushing his skull with a war hammer, but whatever warning the unlucky messenger had come with seemed to have had an effect because finally the giant made a move.

So too did Sarevok. Drawing his father's sword he came out into the open, glaring down the hilltop.

"Yaga-Shura! I am Sarevok, protector of this city! Come and face me if you dare!"

Yaga-Shura turned. Then with a roar of fury, he thundered toward Sarevok, raising a battle hammer above his flaming red head and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

Coran unleashed an Arrow of Detonation at the giant the instant he was in range. It exploded on his kneecap, hobbling him, but the fire giant limped on. There was no time to fire another. Sarevok met him head-on, but Yaga-Shura was quicker than his temple guardians. His hammer swung into his half-brother's chest, lifting him into the air and throwing him back several feet.

YOU CAN DO IT! FINISH HIM!

Bhaal hollered cheerfully. Jaheira pursed her lips. It was not clear which of the two Bhaalspawn he was rooting to destroy the other, but this fight was win-win for him. With every death of one of his enormous brood, he came closer to returning to his full powers.

She summoned a nymph, right in front of Yaga-Shura. It distracted him only for a moment before he hammered the summoned creature to a bloody pulp but this gave Sarevok time to get his breath back. Before the giant had a chance to raise his hammer again, he had sliced the tendon behind the giant's good-shin.

Crippled now on both legs, Yaga-Shura had no option but to fight on his knees. He retained a considerable height advantage but could not manoeuvre nor swing his hammer with the same force as before.

"So the treacherous witch Nyalee has shown you how to hurt me," Yaga-Shura grimaced. "I should have destroyed her when I had the chance. Well, you will pay a heavy price for your victory! Come here and let us end this."

He lifted his hammer with difficulty and Sarevok charged him once more. The great weight crashed down, but he dodged it by inches and was on his feet again. There was nothing more the giant could do to defend himself. Bhaal's sword rammed deep into the giant's gut.

Dying, but not yet deceased, Yaga-Shura seized Sarevok by the middle and squeezed. Sarevok kicked uselessly, trying to loosen the giant's grip, writhing in pain. There was a hideous crunching noise as his ribs started to crack and his face was turning purple.

COME ON, YOU'RE SO CLOSE, JUST DIE ALREADY! YOU CAN DO IT!

Bhaal called to them encouragingly. Coran flipped the lip of his satchel closed, muffling the god's voice and blocking his view.

Sadly for Bhaal, Yaga-Shura could not keep it up. His strength was flooding from him with his blood. Gradually his huge fingers loosened, releasing Sarevok, who flopped to the ground in agony.

Yaga-Shura's last act was to attempt to topple forward and crush Sarevok beneath his body. After being squeezed like an orange, Sarevok lacked the breath to even howl in pain as the monstrous corpse landed on him. Yet painful though it was, it only lasted seconds. The body exploded in a firework of golden dust. Sarevok survived with only a few more broken bones and between them Viconia and Jaheira were able to heal him.

"Where is Bhaal!" growled Sarevok vengefully as soon as he had recovered.

He snatched the satchel from Coran's shoulder and tipped it upside-down with the full intention of kicking the hideous chihuahua straight back to the Abyss.

Only Bhaal made no attempt to run away. Instead he landed rigidly on his side, lidless eyes swirling madly in his canine head.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Jaheira, disinterestedly.

Coran leaned in close to him, concerned, but Bhaal suddenly scrambled back with a low howl, whimpering and shaking.

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! GET HIM OUT!

"What in the hells?" Rasaad frowned.

Bhaal let out a noise somewhere between a scream and a howl, and without warning began to attempt to chew off his own front leg, as though trying to detach parts of himself. And then the god spoke, not with the combined voice of Bhaal, but with his individual voices that he had possessed throughout his many lives.

"No, get him out, make it go away! I can't deal with this not after…"

The voice sounded familiar to some of the party. It was Imoen. Like Bhaal was doing now, she had sometimes split into her component parts and it had never been a good sign. A number of other voices whom they did not recognise joined the dead chimera in protest, as the party watched on bemused. Bhaal was shaking his head from side to side, spit flying in all directions, before Freya's voice rose loud and unmistakable above the god's confused babble.

"Bugger this! No, I agree, this one has to go!"

"We don't have the option of voting each other out," chipped in a new contributor. It was a weary voice, with a slightly unhinged shake to it. Eric's voice. "Like it or not Yaga-Shura is part of us. We cannot get rid of him."

"So… what? We have to remember what he did to Ehlastra and all the others for… forever?" Freya's voice replied in a sort of puppy-like whine.

"What we did. What I did," came Eric's hollow reply. "We are Bhaal and he is Bhaal."

"No, I _won't_!" Imoen screamed suddenly. "I'll send us all back to the Abyss, we'll be separate there!"

With that outburst, Bhaal threw himself onto the point of Sarevok's sword without his wayward son even having to lift a finger. The little dog popped out of existence, leaving silence in his wake.

* * *

* * *

"What just happened?" asked Rasaad, at length.

"It sounds as though Ehlastra was telling the truth about Yaga-Shura after all," replied Viconia.

She sounded unconcerned and Rasaad had to remind himself that she not only came from a culture where sex slavery was common, but she had spent a brief period as one herself when she first came to the surface. The concept did not repulse her as it did him and, apparently, Bhaal.

"We should never had said such things to her," Rasaad moaned, his face a picture of guilt. "I feel terrible."

"Not as terrible as Bhaal, it would seem," Jaheira observed archly. "I must confess myself surprised. From an evil god, one would assume he performed such acts on a regular basis."

But Coran, who felt he knew Bhaal better, shook his head.

"I wouldn't," he fretted. "By his own admission he was a violent oaf, but he's not a sadist. Now he remembers being a… a…"

"Rapist," Jaheira chimed in bluntly.

Sarevok said nothing. He had been a part of the combined Bhaal entity, very briefly at the Twofold Temple. His mind had been a chaotic, argumentative place then. So many conflicting perspectives, desires and ideologies. Someday, surely, they would all merge fully into a single, coherent Bhaal. Perhaps the other personalities' disdain for Yaga-Shura would consign the dead giant to lurking in a dark little corner at the back of Bhaal's mind, suppressed and imprisoned by all the others. Which was, no doubt, the same fate that Freya had in mind for him.

He was snapped out of his gloomy reverie by applause. Thunderous and rapturous, the surving citizens of Saradush were climbing to the ramparts, cautiously at first and then in ever greater numbers. They were cheering and chanting his name.

"I can't hear fighting anymore!" Coran cried. "Keldorn's army must have defeated Yaga-Shura's!"

Beyond the wall, the roar of battle had indeed fallen silent. They watched, waiting for knights flying Order banners to come galloping around the walls of the city and into view. Perhaps for Anomen himself to ride forth and greet them but there was nothing.

Sarevok stiffened. Not only were there no sounds of battle coming from beyond the city walls, but there were no sounds _at all._ No groans of the dying, nor celebrations from the victors. Certainly not the combined clopping and snorting of several hundred horses that an Order of Knights would be sure to have with them.

"Something is wrong," he said.

"I agree, my friend," nodded Rasaad, looking suddenly worried. "It is far too quiet."

When Amelyssan 's flaming red mane of hair appeared over the gates of Saradush, their feeling of dread only intensified.

"The Hero of Saradush has saved our city!" her voice rang out loud and clear. "Lower the bridge and let us welcome our hero home!"

Ice cold panic flooded Sarevok's veins. The chain's holding the drawbridge up from the moat jangled and the portcullis blocking the way into the city rattled upward. He tried desperately to warn them.

"No, don't do it!" he cried, charging forward with the others close behind him, but the sight of him approaching only made the people clap louder and they did not hear him.

They were too far away to prevent what happened next.

As soon as the drawbridge fell, shapes emerged from the water of the moat. They looked, at first, to be survivors who had fallen into the water and the defenders paused, confused. Their hesitation lasted only a moment but in that time enough bodies had emerged from the water to weigh the bridge down.

Somebody shouted, "drop the gate!" but it was too late. The creatures from the water threw themselves beneath its falling spikes, wedging it open with their own bodies. For bodies, of course, were exactly what they were.

Dead drow, humans and even freshly raised fire giants came swarming out of the water. To the party's horror, more were emerging from behind the walls than they could ever hope to fight. As the animate corpses spewed into the city, piercing screams rang out and the people who had been clapping moments before began to vanish from the walls.

Amelyssan looked down and waved sarcastically at a lone, grumpy half-orc bobbing along the moat. Dorn, Rasaad noticed with a stab of rage, was still wearing the inflatable belt that Arowan had regifted to him. Dorn looked ridiculous and knew it, but when he reached the drawbridge and was plucked out by a fire giant his eyes gleamed murderously.

They had no hope of fighting their way to the city and in any case it was already too late. Dorn ducked under the gate, still wedged open with corpses, to lead the slaughter.

"Where is she?" Viconia seethed. "Where is Arowan?"

She did not have to wait long to find out. The pale ranger emerged a few minutes later onto the battlements beside Amelyssan, and pointed directly at the horrified party. Her ranger's eyes had spotted them instantly amongst the abandoned debris of Yaga-Shura's siege. Amelyssan followed her gaze and laughed.

Arowan was not laughing. Even from this distance they could see that there was no triumph in her eyes nor amusement at their misfortune. She was simply watching them, oblivious to the screeches of the innocent behind her, waiting to see what they would do.

In a moment of madness, Sarevok considered charging down her entire army, but enough of the undead were within the walls for Arowan to take the whole city now. She didn't need all that many, when her army grew with each defender she slayed. Her minions dragged their impaled fellows out from under the gate and raised up the drawbridge.

* * *

* * *

"How did she get into the city?" howled Viconia, tearing at her silver hair.

"Magic?" hazarded Coran.

"Amelyssan may have let her in through the tunnels," suggested Rasaad.

"She'll have climbed up the other side," said Jaheira, who knew her adopted daughter best.

Sarevok said nothing, but his hand gripped the hilt of his father's sword so hard that his knuckles turned white. Amelyssan was still there, sneering at him from the battlements with Arowan by her side. No doubt Dorn would join them soon, once the butchery of the day was done.

Jaheira's guess was closest, although she had no way to know that Arowan had purchased a drider from the city of Menzoberranzan. Valas DeVir had scaled the walls with ease and transported his rider across the rooftops of the ruined city, high above the heads of the terrified populace. He was feeding now, taking advantage of the supply of dying commoners before his mistress turned them and ruined the meat.

"We have to try to reason with her!" Coran wailed to Jaheira. "I can hear screaming, there's still time to save some of those people!"

But the druid shook her head resolutely.

"There is no point trying to reason with someone on Numbing Potions," she said. "We must find Anomen and return with Keldorn's army. There is nothing else we can do."

"There is _one_ other thing you could do," whispered a voice from the shadows. "Die!"

Invisible and swift, the assassin's blade plunged between Viconia's ribs, miraculously missing all of her major organs. The gods continued to protect their Chosen One's life but not, unfortunately to the extent of sparing her pain.

"Viconia!" Rasaad bellowed.

The druid scooted to her side, yanked out the dagger and healed her. She did not have enough spells left to fully repair the damage after Sarevok's battle with Yaga-Shura, but it was enough to keep the drow breathing.

Rasaad ducked a second swing from the assassin, seized the man about the neck with one arm and twisted his head with the other. There was a snap of spine and the man crumpled to the floor. Three more assassins remained. Such a small force to attack such a powerful party and one of them, the monk noticed, was only an acolyte.

"We have a message for you, Rasaad yn Bashir!" the acolyte told him. "Seek out our temple at Mount Deepstone if you are ready, at last, to finish this."

"Do you think me a fool?" roared Rasaad, crushing the acolyte's neck beneath his huge hand as the young man struggled and kicked. "I will not simply step into your master's trap!"

"Finally, the mooncalf is learning," muttered Viconia, massaging her chest.

Sarevok beheaded a third assassin almost lazily as the man ran at him and Coran shot the last one, though he had been doing nothing but standing there. The arrow embedded in the Sharran's narrow chest with a thud.

Puzzled, Coran shot him again, but the hooded figure continued to stand as still as an uninstructed golem. Neither fighting nor falling.

"What the…?" the elf muttered.

"It's undead!" Viconia sensed it. "Don't go near it! Let me!"

Grimacing through the pain of her injuries, she focussed her powers on the zombie, trying to bring it under her own control. A very powerful magic was counteracting her own. She had almost won it around to their control when Sarevok, who was in a murderous temper over the fall of Saradush, decapitated it.

The head dropped out of the folds of material hooding it and rolled to a stop at Coran's feet. Repulsed, he stepped backward and peered down at it curiously.

"Huh. This one has tattoos just like yours, Rasaad."

"What is this? Not enough that Alorgoth murders my order, he desecrates their bodies as well?" howled Rasaad, running over to see if it was someone he knew.

He picked up the head, holding it carefully in his hands. The Selunite monk had been dead for a long time. First ice and then magic had preserved him and (though his lips had shrunk back from his teeth and his eyes were milky) there was no mistaking him.

Slowly, as though in a trance, Rasaad lowered his brother's severed head and rose to his feet. Every inch of his muscular body was vibrating with rage, but while Sarevok's eyes were still on Saradush, his were glaring in the direction the assassins had come from.

"Alorgoth!"

* * *

* * *

There was some argument back and forth in the party. Arowan could not hear their words from the battlements but she didn't need to. As Dorn, blood soaked and merry, climbed the stone steps to join her enemies followed Rasaad away into the trees in the direction of Mount Deepstone.

"It seems the monk is taking the bait," Dorn noted.

"Of course he is," Arowan replied lightly. "He's an idiot."

"Having his dead brother deliver the message was a nice touch."

Arowan smiled emotionlessly at the compliment, such as it was, and stroked Valas's silvery hair. The drider ignored her. He was wrapping Sister Farielle in layers and layers of silk, ready to hang her in her own temple which he had converted into a sort of larder. His poison had, by some small mercy, at least rendered the priestess unconscious.

"Any survivors?" she asked.

"Only those few with the wit not to fight back. Amelyssan is inspecting them now, to ensure that we have not missed any Bhaalspawn."

"Good."

"She will try to slay you next," Dorn warned her.

"Naturally." The fallen ranger sounded supremely unconcerned. She bit the finger of one of her white gloves and pulled it off. "Actually, I hesitated about using Gamaz to deliver Alorgoth's message."

"Oh?" growled Dorn. It was not like his mistress to show pity, but after the incident at the swamp temple he was starting to have his doubts.

"I thought to myself," Arowan went on idly, "What if it occurs to Rasaad that _I_ am the necromancer not Alorgoth? Or that Alorgoth did not know where Gamaz was buried, therefore the only person who could have supplied him with that particular zombie was me?"

Dorn chuckled nastily.

"But then you had your moment of epiphany?" the Blackguard filled in for her. "You realised…"

"That of course, these things…" she sighed.

"Won't occur to him…" he went on.

"Because Rasaad yn Bashir…"

"…is an idiot." Dorn finished bluntly.

Arowan rolled her grimy white glove into a ball in her palm and smiled at the Blackguard with satisfaction.

"Yup."

"Where to now?" Dorn asked.

"Amelyssan informs me that we have four more targets, not including Sarevok," Arowan replied. "A monk by the name of Balthazar and a drow cleric-mage called Sendai. Both have armies. The remaining two are father and son. Dragons, no less."

Dorn's brow furrowed.

"That should not be possible," he said darkly. "The time it takes one dragon to reach maturity, never mind two generations doesn't…"

"Many of the Bhaalspawn were tampered with by interested parties," Arowan noted, replacing her glove. "Freya with Gorion's tomes, Yaga-Shura with his invulnerability, Sarevok manipulated into slaughtering his siblings and as for Irenicus and his experiments... It would not surprise me to learn that the egg was taken by someone interested in Bhaal's power and modified in some way. It doesn't matter. They've all got to go. Pick a target."

Dorn wet his lips with anticipation. A dragon was a formidable foe. On the other hand, he had enjoyed his excursions to Urst-Natha immensely. The drow made for vicious and cunning enemies.

"Let us start," he grinned, "By paying this 'Sendai' a visit."


	23. Nashkel Taverns Bespoke Hand-Crafted Ale

"These assassins were clearly here to kill me," Rasaad thundered. "Alorgoth will not be satisfied until the last of my order is dead."

"Let us hope he goes unsatisfied for a good long while," Sarevok said, forgetting himself. He scowled and added: "At least until our alliance runs its course."

"He will go unsatisfied for as long as he lives, I hope. Which, gods willing, will not be long at all," the monk replied. "Coran, you are from Tethir. Where is Mount Deepstone that we may hasten his demise?"

Coran ran his fingers through his newly sheered hair. He kept forgetting that so much of it was gone and found himself surprised by the unfamiliar sensation of it ending so soon. He still had not managed to get a proper look at it, but that hardly seemed to matter anymore. Not when he had just witnessed an entire city fall prey to the undead.

"I still can't believe that Arrow would do this," he muttered distractedly. "If I could just talk to her…"

Viconia spat with rage. She was still clutching her half-healed chest where Alorgoth's assassins had pierced her. Rasaad's attention to her brush with death had evaporated with the discovery that his brother's corpse had been sent to taunt him, neglect the drow resented.

"Why must you persist in this infantile belief that the Adversary is redeemable?" she berated Coran. "Do you know where Deepstone is or not?"

"I can lead you there, but Rasaad, Deepstone is a _dwarven_ stronghold. It has nothing to do with Shar!" Coran panted. "I beg you, don't charge in there, fists blazing. We don't want to end up with a city's blood on our hands."

Sarevok's jaw clenched. Loathe though he was to admit it, he had grown fond of Saradush and attached to those stupid people who'd imagined that he was a hero. Well, now they knew better!

Revenge against Arowan would bring him no satisfaction, since she felt nothing and did not care. One might as well seek vengeance against an earthquake or a volcano. It was that cursed priestess Amelyssan whom he had wanted to go in after. She and her lackeys had used him once in Baldur's Gate and now he had been her pawn once again.

It was only the thought of having to cut down swathes of the inhabitants of Saradush in undead form which had persuaded him to follow Rasaad's bloodthirsty quest. He did not have the heart to see the ruined city from the inside.

"I cannot forget Arowan's face watching us from the battlements. Hateful creature," Viconia whispered, shaking. "I can feel her eyes still upon me, willing my destruction."

_Not just hers, little fly…_

Viconia stopped dead as though she had walked into the cobwebs of a giant spider. Her skin took on a greenish tinge of those exposed to their venomous fangs. She looked about her with wild crimson eyes, but nobody else had heard.

_Yes… I'm still here Viconia. It won't be long now…_

Lolth's cruel slithery little voice slipped away, leaving Viconia a mess of terror. She sank to her knees and let out a dry sob, pulling at her silvery hair.

"What is wrong?" asked Rasaad.

Viconia looked up at him with burning eyes. Despite his words he seemed more irritated by the delay to hunting Alorgoth than concerned for her wellbeing. Abject terror transformed into rage.

"How long do you intend to crack the whip at my back?" she snapped at him. "I demand that we stop. Now!"

"It would be unwise to approach the Dark Moon with our healing spells depleted," Jaheira concurred. "There is a village not half an hour's walk to the west. Sarevok! Find a good whetstone and sharpen your sword when we get there. Rasaad, you need new shoes, those are threadbare. Viconia go straight upstairs and try to get some rest, we'll bring your food to you and Coran?"

"Yes?"

"You are not to summon Bhaal again without warning the rest of us _first._ A mad god… I can think of nothing more dangerous."

* * *

* * *

As it happened, the druid was not alone in that opinion. It was a mad god, Cyric, who had taken over Bhaal's portfolio. Seven hooded figures standing about a round table were discussing him now.

"Cyric supports the Adversary even though his followers will be purged. It is easier to replace mortals than it is to destroy a god. He has no desire to hand the title 'Lord of Murder' back to Bhaal."

"Personally, I am surprised that the mad god has not attempted to interfere directly," remarked Lolth's handmaiden.

"He is not permitted to," replied Alorgoth coldly. "There are… higher authorities. Ao has decided that the Bhaalspawn situation must be allowed to play out."

"But _why?_ " Ilmater's representative in the strange alliance moaned. "Think of all the innocents who must die over this!"

"In so far as I have been able to divine from the archives and our best seers," sighed Prelate Wessalen, scratching his beard, "The issue is with the portfolio of murder and what to do with it. Every peasant knows about the Time of Troubles when the gods were forced to walk Toril as mortals. What is less commonly known is the reason.

"In the Year of Shadows Bhaal's former associates, Bane and Myrkul stole an artefact from the Overgod Ao, wrongly suspecting that his power was derived from it. They hoped to depower and overthrow him in much the same manner as the dead three had attained their original ascension."

"Ao is not, of course, really an Overgod," Alorgoth cut in. "There is no true omnipotent goddess but Shar who doth answer to no one. Ao is merely an uncommonly powerful deity. More so than Bane, Myrkul and Bhaal. Less so than Shar"

He glared about the table as though daring anyone to contradict him.

"Er… regardless…" Prelate Wessalen muttered evasively, "Ao was already angry with the gods for ignoring their worshippers. When he discovered his artefact missing, he summoned all the deities to ask for those guilty to return them. When nobody stood forward to confess to the theft, he cast them all down from the heavens, confiscating their divine power in the process. None were allowed to return until the artefact was found."

Lolth's handmaiden yawned pointedly. Her disdain for having to associate with surfacers was matched by a dwarven cleric standing across the table who was clearly no happier about sharing a space with her. The dwarf kept eyeing the drow and polishing the blade of her ceremonial battle axe with the end of her beard.

"Fascinating," said the drow, in a tone that suggested she found it anything but. "Only what does all of this have to do with Bhaal and the Adversary?"

"Bhaal predicted his own demise at this point," replied the Prelate. "Ao's fury with the gods began with them ignoring their worshippers, and nobody was more guilty of this than Bhaal. His cult practically ran itself. He guessed that Ao would allow him to be replaced by some ambitious mortal and sure enough, on Boareskyr Bridge, that is exactly what happened. Cyric killed Bhaal and assumed the portfolio of murder, one of the most powerful roles in the dark pantheon.

"Only Cyric turned out to be utterly unstable. His abuse of the portfolio of murder has been far more damaging to the divine balance than Bhaal's negligence. Through the Bhaalspawn, Bhaal has lived out many lives, been murdered many times. He has experienced his portfolio from both sides and it has changed him. Bhaal is different now and he was not involved in Bane and Myrkul's theft. It appears that Ao has decided to grant him a second chance."

"Aye," rumbled the dwarf, "So long as Gorion's Ward doesn't detonate Bhaal's essence and wipe out all the evil persons in Toril."

She grinned pointedly at the drow as she said this, from under her bushy moustache.

"It all sounds so wonderful when you put it like that," sighed Wessalen wistfully, earning him poisonous glances from the drow and the Sharran. "Only it wouldn't be, would it? Wiping out a third of the population all at once… there'd be mass starvation, our lands overrun with monsters, demons spawning from the hells…"

"It will not be permitted to happen," Alorgoth said with certainty. "The Adversary will fail eventually. The demon lord Ur-Gothoz shields her from the sight of the gods for now, but ultimately one demon cannot oppose the will of almost every god in the pantheon."

"They could have chosen to smite all of the Bhaalspawn in their infancy," suggested the drow mildly. "That's what we would have done."

"They were not permitted to. As I say there are higher authorities even… even than the gods," said the Prelate. "He who sentenced Bhaal to the Time of Troubles in the first place seems to have wanted to give his progeny the chance to grow up. He wants Bhaal to become something… more. He wants him to succeed."

* * *

* * *

Horses whinnied and the camp bustled with busy squires, men hollering orders and the flapping of white banners. Anomen surveyed the scene. Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing except him.

"What ho!" called Keldorn, striding across the camp to meet him. He was attended by two squires whom he brushed off kindly but firmly.

He was still wearing Freya's dragonhide armour but he'd had it modified so that it no longer came complete with an unnecessarily large chest cavity. The seams were almost perfect. It could have been made for him were his gut just a little tighter.

Better still, the old paladin was carrying Casomyr. Though the Order would rather have won it back from Firkraag by force, it's return had still instilled an air of optimism into the ranks. Anomen wished that he could fully share in it.

"Here, Sir Anomen," Keldorn said, holding out a suit of black scales. "Hide of the Shadow Dragon. May it serve ye well lad."

"Thank you, Sir," Anomen replied earnestly, taking the suit, "But what news from the scouts?"

A shadow passed across Keldorn's kindly old eyes.

"Two of the Bhaalspawn armies fought over the city of Saradush. It seems the survivors will be few if any," his elder informed him grimly.

"Which two?" asked Anomen with a heavy heart.

"The fire giant Yaga-Shura whom your friends were hunting," Keldorn replied, "And a large undead force of many species including drow. Presumably belonging to Arowan of Candlekeep. Yaga-Shura's forces were completely destroyed. She now holds what little is left of Saradush."

"The lords of Tethir…?"

"Will not fight. They took one look at Yaga-Shura's forces and turned their army around. I doubt they will be in any more of a hurry to take on Arowan. Seems that they will leave the Bhaalspawn to fight amongst themselves before sallying forth to congratulate the winner. Cowards."

Anomen buried his face into his hands. The destruction of another city, all down to his poor judgement. Had he not fed Arowan the numbing potion all of those people would still be alive.

"Damn Dorn to hell!" he raged at the half-orc responsible for tricking him into it. "We must take back the city!"

"No sense in that, lad, she'll abandon it soon enough of her own accord," the more seasoned commander predicted. "Just like she abandoned Urst Natha. Better to face her out in the open. Undead minions are no match for a cavalry of paladins and clerics. In the field our victory is a foregone conclusion, but with the protection of walls and moats the Adversary may have a chance."

There was too much truth in this to ignore. Anomen conceded with a nod, but he made an impatient noise in his throat as he did so.

"So now we wait?"

"So now we wait," confirmed Keldorn. "If she wants those other Bhaalspawn, she'll have to come out, and when she does we'll be ready to hunt down her foul swarm of undead."

* * *

* * *

"You wish to break at a _tavern?"_

"Tavern is not a dirty word Rasaad," Jaheira reminded him sharply. "And yes, I do. How many of us are there?"

She did a quick count. Herself, Coran, Sarevok, Viconia and Rasaad made five. One short.

"Each of you order an ale. Nashkel Taverns Bespoke Hand-Crafted Ale by the bottle. Sarevok, I need you to down yours quickly and order a second," the druid instructed bossily.

In the end, both she and Sarevok had to order a second drink, for Viconia made a point of ordering a glass of ruby wine instead, just to annoy her. It was nice, after so long living feral, to be able to order a full meal and have it cooked for them. Rasaad, however, did not appreciate it. He was pacing furiously, eager to be off in search of Sarevok once more.

Coran had gotten about a third of the way down his bottle when his eyes widened. He gingerly parted the rim of the bottle from his lips, spat out a small capsule into his palm and passed it to Jaheira.

After a quick glance around the cosy tavern to check that they were not being observed, she opened it. Nobody was looking at them. News did not appear to have reached the Inn yet about what had happened to Saradush and the atmosphere was one of ignorant jollity. A young lass was forcing a tune out of a cracked old fiddle near the bar and customers were heckling her good naturedly and lobbing bits of mouldy fruit.

Jaheira read the note hastily and then tossed it into the fire. She stood staring at the flames afterward, brow knotted in thought. Coran gave his ale one last check for more hidden messages, slipped out of his seat, and strode over to join her in front of the crackling logs.

"Bernard?" he whispered.

Jaheira nodded, then said quietly;

"He has returned to Baldur's Gate. The situation is stable for now, though that may change at any moment. Bodhi effectively rules the city in Skie's body."

"Surely her father must have noticed by now?" whispered Coran incredulously.

"Either he is in denial, or he is choosing to turn a blind eye," Jaheira replied. "Everyone believes that Freya murdered his daughter now that she has come back to life and said so. The Duke too. He's appointed an official bard, Eldoth, to go forth and sing of Freya's treachery in every tavern in the city. I expect Duke Silvershield thought that it would raise his popularity."

"I would have thought so," Coran said bitterly.

Jaheira shook her head. Firelight reflected dangerously in her intelligent, sharp eyes. Her lips thinned with worry at the state she had left the city in.

"Freya's popularity as the head of the Flaming Fist wasn't just from her charisma and it certainly didn't stem from competence," the druid said. "Part of the reason they loved her so much was that she _wasn't_ Duke Silvershield. He was loathed long before she set foot in the city and her fall from grace has not made them like _him_ any better. Instead most people blame him for approving his daughter's marriage in the first place."

"He didn't approve!" the elf said emphatically.

"But he stood up in public and told the people of Baldur's Gate that he did," Jaheira reminded him. " _We_ know that he detested Freya, but that wasn't something he went out of his way to broadcast to the general populace. They hate him. Whereas they adore Skie. The people's princess. Even the Blue Beards support her. She's promised commoners the vote."

"So in other words, it makes no difference whether Silvershield believes she's his daughter or not. The people will follow Skie regardless," Coran understood. "What is Captain Corwin's position?"

"Same as the Duke. If either of them suspect Skie, they have the good sense to keep it to themselves. Anyone who guesses who Bodhi is, is dead meat. That's why she sent me after you, Coran. She knows you know."

"Corwin knows too," he said. "She let me escape from the city on purpose."

They watched the fire crackling a little longer.

"You made one hell of a vampire, Jaheira. I was tempted to let you bite me."

Jaheira rolled her eyes and flicked his ankles with her stick, but her lip twitched very slightly.

"Liar. You were in no way tempted to let me catch you. You were wetting yourself in terror. All I needed to do to track you down was to follow the puddles."

Coran laughed loudly, earning him disgusted glares from Sarevok and Rasaad. Neither man felt that this was any time for mirth. The Bhaalspawn was hearing Amelyssan's mocking voice calling him the 'Hero of Saradush' over and over in his head. Rasaad could think of nothing but Alorgoth.

"Viconia," he said quietly. "We need to talk."

* * *

* * *

The cleric smiled at him seductively and began to head toward the stairs but instead Rasaad was leading the way outside. There was something in his eyes, a pained steel, that Viconia didn't like. She suddenly felt with iron certainty that she was not going to like whatever he was about to say.

Outside it was dry but very cold. She shivered and pulled her tunic closer about her. A spiteful gust rustled the thatching on the nearby houses and somewhere nearby a door was slamming in the wind.

"Viconia," he began heavily, "These last few months together… It is as if Selune herself heard my prayers and granted me my ultimate wish."

The drow said nothing. His broad shoulders were slumped and his eyes fixed on the ground between them. For a man whose 'ultimate wish' had been granted by the gods he did not look very happy.

"Selune could not grant _me_ to you moon male, but I shall ignore the insult if you get to the point."

"We have become close. Friends. More than that. I thought…" he took a steadying breath and looked her in the eye. "I thought perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps I could set aside my vengeance and stand by your side, steady and true but it cannot be. There is no future for me, not until Alorgoth is dead."

"What you are saying is that I am not enough for you?" she retorted, stunned.

There was a time when she would have slain a male on principle for such an insolent remark, but the longer she spent on the surface the harder she found it to summon her former fury. A fatigue of the soul had crept up upon her so slowly that she had not even noticed it until this moment, when she tried to call upon her reserves of energy and found them spent.

"I want you to be," replied Rasaad, "But you are not."

His lover's expression was unreadable and he floundered a little. It was far from the reaction he had expected. Fury, insults, perhaps an attempt to impale him on something pointy. Whereas this restrained bottling of feeling… it reminded him sickeningly of Arowan.

"Killing Alorgoth may cost me my life. In some ways it already has," he continued to fill the awful silence. "My vengeance is all that matters to me. That isn't fair to you and…"

"…and?" she echoed through clenched teeth.

"Alorgoth is devoted to Shar, as you are."

Rasaad voiced the thought that had been picking at his brain since he first held his dead brother's desecrated head in his hands. "If you were to, when it came to it, choose to align with your own I do not know what I would do."

"You think I would betray you? For _Alorgoth?_ " Viconia finally recovered from her shock sufficiently to summon a small rage. "Have you forgotten his attempts to kill _me?_ Alorgoth believes that he ought to be the Servant of all Faiths and would be rid of me to achieve it!"

Unlike Rasaad, Viconia was usually much quicker on the uptake when it came to double-crossing and trickery but she was distracted by the literal pain from her knife wound and the metaphorical pain in her heart. Otherwise she might have recalled that she was, and had long been, Alorgoth's primary target and not Rasaad.

"I am sorry Viconia- but we are done," said Rasaad with an air of finality. "Until Alorgoth is dead, this cannot be. It would destroy us both."

Viconia glared at the sickle moon with red eyes. Her nails dug so hard into her palms that little droplets of blood spread over her fingertips. Then to Rasaad's astonishment she threw back her silver hair and laughed. Not her true, squeaky laugh, but the cruel faux laughter the drow reserved for her most hated enemies.

"You used to do this to her too. Do you remember?" she demanded when she had stopped laughing. Rasaad's eye twitched beneath his tattooed brow, for Viconia could only be talking about Arowan. "How I used to sneer at that insipid Ilmatari for tolerating it. She let you pick her up and drop her like a flimsy little bunny rabbit. Well I won't let you destroy me like you destroyed her. I am through with you Rasaad yn Bashir!"

Rasaad bristled. Not because she was claiming to have been the one to ditch him, he had been expecting that. No. Because she dared to blame him for…

"I am not responsible for the creation of the Adversary!"

Viconia sneered.

"No. I suppose you're not. Nyalee's shades proved that. Poor little Arowan lost everyone she really loved. Khalid, Yoshimo and finally Jaheira… I didn't see the shades adopt your form to greet her. You're not really that important to her."

"But she is that important to you!" thundered Rasaad, unable to contain himself. "You can think of nothing that you do not frame in terms of Arowan! Not even us. Your whole existence revolves around that woman!"

This thought had been lurking in the recesses of his mind ever since hearing a drow song of mourning in Urst Natha. The dark elves had a peculiar cultural quirk of romanticising feuds. Little drow girls grew up on a diet of fairy tales in which the heroine finds her one true nemesis and lives violently ever after. _Losing_ a true hatred was deemed an infinitely more devastating loss than losing a lover. When a hatred was pure, ending it drained a drow female's life of all meaning.

"Arowan is _not_ my true loathe, male, if that is what you are suggesting. Bah!" she spat. "I am through talking to you. I would tell you to save your sappy whinging for someone who cares, but there is nobody left who does!"

Without a word, Viconia swept back into the inn, past the others and upstairs to bed. It was cold in the room and the sheets enveloped her like a shroud. Arowan's face swam cold and pale in her mind's eye.

She knew, in her broken heart, that Rasaad was right. At least about Arowan. Viconia was the Servant of all Faiths; chosen, protected and special but only because of the Adversary. Without Arowan she was merely Viconia again. One mortal alone in the face of Lolth's wrath.

"Shar protect me," she begged, curling into a ball and sobbing. The bedsheets tightened about her, suddenly sticky like spider silk.

_She won't, little fly… You know she won't…_


	24. Too Obvious a Trick

Amelyssan quickly learnt of the Order's presence in Tethir. Hundreds of horses and suits of armour make an almighty racket and besides, Keldorn was not trying to hide. At once, she began to wheedle and press Arowan to leave the city in search of other Bhaalspawn, but the fallen ranger smelled a rat. Her cynicism had been honed by a lifetime of repeatedly being stabbed in the back both literally and metaphorically. Like her rival, Viconia, she was becoming ever harder to trick.

Quietly, at dusk, Arowan slipped her grappling hook over the side of the walls and set out exploring alone in the dim light. She may have borrowed necromantic powers from Eric, but she had not forgotten how to be a ranger. Within an hour of scouting she had spotted hoofprints and horse shit scattered on the ground. Sniffing the air, she detected the nearby smoke of a campfire, and followed it to a glade.

Peering between the trees she spied a bored young man in armour, poking his dying fire with a stick to coax some extra warmth from it. Arowan recognized the Order of the Radiant Heart's insignia on his breastplate and on the cloth covering his horse's flank.

Cursing inwardly, she slunk away and returned to the city.

"What did you find?" whispered Dorn, when she pulled herself back over the battlements.

"A scouting party from the Order of the Radiant Heart. Anomen's back with reinforcements," Arowan murmured. "I thought him too arrogant to return to the Order on bended knee, but it seems that the petulant brat has chosen a most inconvenient moment to grow up. On reflection, letting him live may have been a tactical mistake."

"I could have told you that," snarled Dorn. For once, Arowan did not disagree with him, but the scheming necromancer already had a solution in mind.

She scoured the city for a zombie with brown curly hair, underfed and pale. A dead girl who, from a distance, bore a passing resemblance to herself. Carefully, she dressed it in Irenicus's stained robes, Ellesime's white gloves, her boots, amulets and with a little regret even Captain Corwin's bow.

"Coran stole this for me back in Baldur's Gate," she noted idly. "He was outside the walls with Sarevok's party, did you notice?"

"Weren't you two lovers once?" sneered Dorn.

The half-orc had not known Coran personally, merely as Freya's pointy-eared lacky. Yet the Bitch of Baldur's Gate and her followers had not been universally popular. Particularly not with Dorn. This was partially down to her sensitive werewolf nose leading to frequent remarks about his stench, but mainly because she had tried to murder him on their return from Dragonspear.

"Lovers… and friends…" mused Arowan with a fond smile. She looked directly at Dorn, her eyes misted with memories. "Perhaps I shall use that against them later."

Dorn shot her a dark look. Villainous murderer though he was, the Blackguard had a moral code of sorts. Loyalty was a trait he valued highly, and he was capable of strong passions in his personal life. Whereas this woman was as cold and hollow as a wraith.

"Your mind must be a vile place," he spat disgustedly.

Arowan made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat, and between them she and Dorn hoisted her undead mimic into the saddle of a horse. It sat there, staring blankly. They had to tie its undead hands to the reigns and strap its legs to the saddle to keep it in position. Close-to it could not possibly be mistaken for Arowan by anybody who knew her, but from a distance even the most eagle-eyed of rangers would not be able to tell it was a fake.

"Are you quite sure about this plan?" Dorn asked hoarsely. "You will lose a third of your army, not to mention these powerful artefacts! This will lessen your own strength significantly."

"It cannot be helped," she replied, as calmly as if she were sacrificing a knight in a game of chess. "We cannot win against an army of paladins and clerics. Not when our forces are comprised entirely of animate corpses. No… take the decoy out the front gate with a third of our troops. March them in the direction of the dragons' stronghold. Amelyssan will scuttle off to tell Keldorn so that he can wipe us out. Meanwhile I will take the remaining zombies out through the sewers and march on Sendai. Meet us there."

Dorn looked outraged.

"You cannot go alone. Losing Irenicus's robes and Ellesime's gloves will weaken your powers!" he protested.

"Which is precisely why Amelyssan would never suspect I'd give them up," sighed Arowan regretfully. "But it cannot be helped. We are at a severe tactical disadvantage, Dorn. Now do as I say, there's a good boy."

The Blackguard's fingers slipped about the hilt of his sword, but through it his demon master spoke to him. Arowan's crusade was feeding his army with more souls every day, and Ur-Gothoz was not about to give her up for the sake of a half-orc's temper.

* * *

* * *

War horns reverberated through the Order's camp which came alive with the rushing of squires, snorting horses and men hastening to the bushes for last minute bathroom breaks. Anomen burst from his tent, buckling the breastplate of his new shadow dragon armour as he went.

"Mount up lad, it's time!" Keldorn told him, taking the reigns of a dapple-grey charger in his thick gauntleted hand. "Where were you?"

"Just polishing my armour, Sir," replied Anomen. The older man raised an eyebrow. "That was not a euphemism, I really was polishing my armour."

"It is a fine suit," Keldorn nodded.

"As is yours, Sir."

Keldorn shone like an emerald beacon in the green dragon armour. Now that it was no longer shaped to its former owner, it was a magnificent piece of kit. The Order's smiths had hidden the new seamlines _almost_ perfectly, though where they had flattened the chest there was a faint join slit running vertically along the heart.

Not that Anomen noticed or cared. He was eager to settle the score with Dorn and to rectify his mistake with Arowan. A black warhorse was found for him, matching his dark armour. With the knights' usual flair for the dramatic, someone had even found him a charcoal black helm and shield.

"Really?" he asked dryly.

"Picture how daft a silver hat would look atop all that black," Keldorn pointed out. He tugged on the reigns, turning his horse about with a clatter of angry hooves.

"Looks be damned," Anomen snapped. Keldorn chuckled.

"I remember a young squire who took a very different view," he reminded him. "I recall a time when you shunned a suit of dragonhide armour just because it sported an ill-fitting torso."

"Aye," laughed Anomen, flicking the reigns and the two of them cantered to the head of the company. "There is nothing quite like the end of the world as we know it to put these things into perspective."

* * *

* * *

"Stop where ya stand! Come no farther!"

The party halted, except for Rasaad, who strode onward determinedly in the direction of Deepstone and had to be restrained by Coran and Sarevok's combined efforts.

"As you wish," he said, but in a voice of forced politeness through gritted teeth.

"Who're you then?" demanded a sodden dwarf. He was dripping with defiance as well as filth, but the pale visage beneath his brown beard suggested that he was not accustomed to spending time on the surface. Viconia was incapable of feeling sympathy toward a detestable dwarf, but empathy, certainly. "What's yer business here?"

"I seek Alorgoth!" Rasaad declared openly and boldly.

"Then die like a dog, ya Sharran scoundrel!" roared the dwarf. He raised his axe, though oddly enough he did not charge. This did not stack with Viconia's experience of angry dwarves, and she was about to comment when Sarevok, profoundly unconcerned, drew his own sword.

Coran leaped between them, palms raised.

"He's here to _kill_ him," he clarified hastily.

"What's this ye say now?" enquired the dwarf, looking suddenly hopeful.

"We were attacked by Alorgoth's minions on the outskirts of Saradush," Rasaad said. "But I owe him greater vengeance than that. I come to put an end to him, with the aid of my friends."

"Friends is a stretch," Viconia remarked under her breath.

The dwarf's pale blue eyes swivelled beneath bushy brows to land upon her.

"She's a Sharran," he pointed.

"Yes, but not a very good one," smirked Jaheira. Nevertheless, as Viconia seethed, the dwarf was raising his axe again. Again, Viconia thought it peculiar that he did not attack her right away. She was a servant of Shar _and_ a drow. Either feature alone ought to be enough under the circumstances.

"Alorgoth has tried to murder me too on occasion, dwarf," Viconia said haughtily. "Once I have destroyed him, I will part ways with this Slime of Selune."

"I don't think that's a very good idea!" Coran baulked. "The more of us there are to fight Arowan, the better!"

"Arowan? Sounds like Alorgoth to me," the dwarf's moustache twitched suspiciously. "Is she his long-lost sister or something?"

"No," snapped Viconia.

"Yeh sure? Yer adventurers, Adventurers are always somebody's long-lost sister or brother… and then the sibling pops up again unexpectedly and everyone is really surprised to…"

"Could we speak of something other than long lost siblings?" grimaced Rasaad, for whom the reunion with Gamaz was still very raw.

"Aye… as yeh wish," replied the dwarf. "But if yer meaning to attack the mountain, Rasaad yn Bashir, you'd best be coming with me."

* * *

* * *

Huddled in a clearing close to the mountain, Viconia's party came upon a small encampment of displaced dwarves. Greying tents, inexpertly erected, swayed sadly in the forest breeze. They were ill provisioned, looking hungry and cold as though they had left their homes in a great hurry. A few had children with them, peering out curiously from behind their parents' stocky legs. These dwarves seemed particularly wary of Rasaad for it was hard for the untrained eye to tell the monks of one order apart from another. They certainly stared at him and Viconia, even more than a drow on the surface would normally expect.

A tired dwarf with a craggy face and greying braids struggled to her feet and walked slowly over. She banged the hilt of her axe on the ground in greeting, without any real conviction, and surveyed the party wearily.

"Greetings. I am Meems Dugdeep of the Deepstone clan."

Coran's lip twitched.

"Can I help yeh, pointy ears?" the dwarf bristled.

"No, I… no," he replied lamely. The dwarves and his own party glared at him in silence, compelling him to elaborate. "It was just… a dwarf called Dugdeep? It's like elves called Greenleaf or Woodwind isn't it?"

"And _yer_ name is?"

"Coran of Tethir."

"The hell kind of surname is that, boy? We're _all_ from Tethir. Well, p'haps not _all_ of us," she eyed the drow with deep suspicion, then her gaze snapped back to Coran. "Well? Out with it! What's your real surname?"

Coran shuffled uncomfortably and didn't answer.

"It's Greenleaf, isn't it?"

"Um… no."

"Silverbranch? Mystictree? Moonbark?"

"Moonbark sounds more like a werewolf name," Sarevok interjected.

Viconia, Rasaad and Coran rounded on him, aghast. Travelling with Freya, who had been acutely sensitive to canine racism, had conditioned them to react badly to comments like that in a way that they didn't even with insults directed at their own species. Sarevok looked back at them blankly.

"Just tell her your name, Coran, we do not have time for this!" Rasaad instructed impatiently. Coran sighed.

"Petalbloom," he murmured, almost too quietly to be audible.

"CORAN PETALBLOOM!" Meems Dugdeep announced loudly to the world. It raised a weak smile from a few of her fatigued followers.

"I'd appreciate it if you refrained from mentioning this to Bhaal," Coran muttered to his party.

"Bhaal has bigger problems at present," Jaheira reminded him darkly.

"That wouldn't stop him taking the piss," the elf replied knowingly. "Believe me, nothing would. Ever. He could ascend to the highest pinnacle of the heavens… and he'd still send visions so that the temple prophets would declare my stupid name from the cobbles of our city."

Meems was eyeing Coran's hacked about haircut, silly green mask and prissy scarf and satchel while listening to all this talk about Bhaal. As though the elf was personally acquainted with the dead human god. She quickly came to the obvious conclusion; that Mr Petalbloom was out of his wits. It was some comfort to her to know that when the madman died in the bowels of the mountain it was no great loss to the world.

"What brings you to the Deepstone Clanhold?" demanded Meems.

"Vengeance," replied Rasaad, eyes smouldering.

"Now there's a motivation I can get behind!" the dwarf declared enthusiastically.

"What happened here?" asked Rasaad urgently.

"Days ago, the Clanhold was penetrated by servants of Shar. Only a handful of us escaped into the forest," Meems explained. "The others were killed or enslaved. To the north, the Sharrans work them night and day, cutting down trees which are sent by river into the mines."

"Then we have a way in," Rasaad said to Sarevok, who nodded.

Hidden amongst the logs, they could float down the river and into the mine. There, surely, they would encounter less resistance than at the main gate. Viconia cleared her throat pointedly.

"Might I remind you, male, of what happened the last time we confronted Alorgoth?" she said, acidly. "You concocted an elaborate scheme to descend from the temple ceiling via a rope and climbing across the roof beams, filling your hands with splinters and risking falling to your death, while the rest of us simply walked in through the front door."

"This time, I fear, it will not be so easy," Rasaad replied.

"I have a hunch that it will be exactly that easy," Viconia hissed poisonously, but she did not elaborate.

"Tell me, Meems," Rasaad pressed, "Why are the Sharrans mining the mountain?"

"Years ago we discovered a special crystal down one of the shafts. A vein of dark purple crystals like we'd never seen before. Certain magics, light and fire in particular, were weakened in the crystals' presence," she said. "It were a curiosity, to be sure, but we did not investigate very deep in. Eventually our lights could not penetrate it and it became too dangerous to mine on any scale. I believe that is what Alorgoth came for. You will find him amongst the crystals, Rasaad."

Rasaad looked troubled, and Viconia too felt very uneasy. Survival instincts, honed by growing up in the fatally treacherous society of Menzoberranzan made her think of traps and spiders. She looked up at the treetops in alarm, but there was nothing above her but rustling leaves and the hollow, eternal sky.

_And me, Viconia. Always me…_

Petrified tears pricked at the corners of the drow's crimson eyes. Lolth's threats were becoming more frequent, her presence ever closer. Viconia's chest constricted, and she longed to turn to Rasaad for comfort, but she did not even have him anymore.

_He could not have saved you anyway little fly…_

She screwed her eyes shut as the conversation between monk and dwarf continued. Meems was explaining another way into the mountain by means of a tunnel that she and her companions had been digging. The way was blocked by some impenetrable rocks, but luckily all the ingredients they needed to detonate the blockage were up in the north near where the slaves were chopping down trees. Silently, Viconia offered a desperate prayer to Shar.

_You pray to Shar, even as you plot with a Selunite to destroy her most loyal follower? You have some guts Viconia, I will allow you that. Perhaps we shall take a closer look at them later._

The voice of Lolth faded. Viconia took a shuddering, steadying breath and tried to focus on the problem in front of her.

"So we may retrieve the explosives and use this tunnel, or ride the logs into the mountain," Jaheira said. Meems nodded. Viconia could not help noticing the way the dwarf bit her lip. "Then let us take a vote. All those in favour of the logs?"

Jaheira and Rasaad raised their hands.

"All those in favour of the dwarves dangerous, unstable, exploding tunnel which will loudly announce our arrival?"

Coran and Sarevok voted.

"Viconia?" Jaheira demanded haughtily.

The drow only shrugged in reply, turned and strode resignedly north, not troubling to stop her boots from crunching loudly through the leaf litter.

"You know how I value your opinion," Rasaad said, hurrying to catch up with her. Viconia fought back the urge to scratch his eyes. "Which of the plans do you think most likely to work?"

"Either," Viconia replied coldly. "Both plans will work equally well. So will walking through the front door. We will meet some token resistance. Enough to make it look convincing, not enough to stop us."

"What do you mean?" Rasaad's brows knotted.

Viconia wheeled around, glaring at them all.

"Not one of you deserves to survive," she cried waspishly. "You are all gullible fools. The dwarf scout we met was watching for us, in the very direction we came from. There is a camp of escapees, barely hidden, right on the Doombringer's doorstep. You saw how Sharrans hunt down fugitives when we were in the Cloud Peak Mountains. Fugitives with _tents,_ and provisions, you idiots. Are these supplies that fleeing dwarves, caught by surprise, would be likely to have readily to hand… and then there's the fact that they called you 'Rasaad.'"

"So?"

"You never told the dwarves your name was Rasaad."

The party fell silent.

"I fear Viconia is right," Sarevok said.

"Then we will go back and put an end to those miserable servants of Alorgoth, before we hunt down the man himself!" cried Rasaad, wheeling around.

"No!" Coran insisted, seizing the monk's huge arm and pulling him back rather ineffectively. "Alorgoth took over their home, he has all their people enslaved, their friends and families. What do you suppose he would do to them if they'd refused to follow his orders? What is to be gained from harming those dwarves? Leave them be!"

Rasaad was burning with fury. His fists were clenched, and his chest rose and fell. The broad muscles on his arms were shaking so hard with rage that the elf struggled to hold onto him.

"Alorgoth clearly wants you to enter the mountain. He lured you here for that purpose," Viconia insisted. "Why would he go to all the effort of sending your brother's corpse with the assassins if he really intended them to succeed?"

The monk stared at the looming mouth of the mountain, flanked by vast stone obelisks painstakingly carved by dwarf craftsmen. For whatever reason, it seemed that Alorgoth wanted to battle him inside the mountain, in the presence of the purple crystals. Perhaps where Selune's light was weakest and Shar's shadows were at their darkest. Yet trap or not, Alorgoth was at last within his reach, and he was not about to turn back now.

"Yes… yes, I see that now…" Rasaad conceded. His dark eyes, enraged beyond reason, were locked onto the mountain's entrance. "Very well Alorgoth. Through the front door it is."


	25. Evasion

A damp, chilly mist rose up from the moat as the drawbridge of Saradush creaked down, landing with an ominous crash against the embankment. Weakly, the sun began to slip below the horizon and in the gloom, the army of the dead marched forth. The ground was muddy, trampled by those rampaging giants of Yaga-Shura's army, whose corpses were now striding, grey and cold, out of the city gates.

As with her magical artefacts, the undead fire giants would be missed keenly by their maker. Too large to slip out through the sewers, they all had to be sacrificed as decoys. Six of them marched across the quivering bridge forming a sort of royal guard. Between them rode two figures at the head of the army.

"That's it… come on out…" muttered Keldorn.

He, Anomen and their commanders were huddled around a large crystal ball in which a scryer was projecting the image.

"Thank you, my lords, for coming to our rescue," Melissan quivered meekly. She looked every inch the refugee, bedraggled and dressed in ragged robes which she had ripped herself on the way. "The devastation that the Bhaalspawn and her foul half-orc have wrecked upon the city is beyond the count of tears, and yet there are those behind its walls who cling to life."

"You have done well to escape and come to us with this," Keldorn told her kindly. "After the battle, the Order will do what we can for those poor souls left behind."

They watched the slightly blurred image in the crystal ball. Dorn was riding bolt upright on a spiteful black stallion, grinning about him. The demon-blade Rancor was strapped to his back and he gripped the reigns one-handed in the shadow of a fire-giant whose light had burned out.

Beside him, the Adversary had her hood drawn high, so that Anomen could not see her expression. Brown curls tumbled from under it and her bony, pale hands held the reigns of her white gelding, wrapped tightly about them. Something about the image struck him as wrong, but then again, everything about Arowan was wrong.

"Can't you make it any clearer?" he demanded of the wizard, impatiently.

The old man glared at him and shook his head.

"It's dark."

A better wizard might have managed it, but the Order had difficulty attracting talented wizards despite their obvious uses. They tended to rail against Order discipline and rules, besides which those with both magical leanings and religious zeal tended to become clerics instead. This particular wizard had been found bankrupt, old and poor on the streets of Athkatla and been taken in on a semi-charitable basis.

"She's not wearing her rings," Anomen noted, in a slightly agitated tone.

"They're probably under her gloves," Keldorn shrugged.

Anomen nodded and bit his lip. Dorn was there, no mistaking him. The fallen ranger was riding strangely, but Irenicus's robe, Ellesime's gloves and that bow-come-siege-weapon of Arowan's were unmistakable. Yet he did not like the fact that he could not see her face. Duplicity was so embedded into her way of thinking and acting that by now he _expected_ a trick.

"This is too easy," he said. "It is a trap, it has to be."

"Courage now, lad," said Keldorn steadily. Anomen rounded on him.

"I have courage enough old man!" he snapped. "I have walked through the gates of a drow city, dangled in the talons of a dragon and narrowly escaped becoming spider food in an encampment full of the dead. Think not that I suggest we do not fight. Merely that I intend to battle Arowan's forces rather than joining them as a corpse myself!"

"Perhaps she has some scheme in mind or other, though it may very likely be that she does not know of our presence," Keldorn sighed wearily. "Perhaps it would be preferable to watch her and know her mind better before we announce ourselves but, alas, there is no time. We will intercept Arowan on the plains to the north east. Sir Ryan; take a company slightly south of our position to cut off her retreat back to Saradush. We ride!"

* * *

* * *

Meanwhile, Saradush was emptying, as corpse after corpse vanished down the city's sewer hatches. Any drain large enough to fit a body was wrenched open by powerful, bloodless hands and the dead disappeared down the holes like rainwater draining away.

Cautiously, the survivors began to open their doors. The shivering, bereaved and shocked humans who had survived the twin assaults of Yaga-Shura and Arowan felt no joy or celebration at the departure of the dead. Barely even relief, for the task of rebuilding their shattered city and lives seemed a challenge insurmountable. Not one in four of the citizens remained, and amongst them no clear leader.

At least Arowan had thought to unlock the granaries before leaving. She had no particular reason not to. Swinging her legs about Valas Devir's human torso, she directed the drider down one of the larger manholes. He scuttled, upside down, through dripping main-pipes on his many legs, and the dead marched under them.

They surfaced to the south, in sight of the city's battered walls. She was not well hidden, but that didn't matter so long as nobody was looking. For miles she led her untiring army in the direction of Sendai's stronghold, where Amelyssan had told them it could be found. Only with the approach of dawn were they forced to stop, with each corpse digging his or her own shallow grave to shelter from the morning light.

Arowan stayed up, taking small sips of numbing potion and watching the road for Dorn to come galloping to her with news that their decoy had worked. He was late.

Her ears caught the distant sound of approaching hooves. If it was not Dorn Il-Khan, if one horse became hundreds, then the paladins had found her and it was all over. Zombies could not survive for very long in the night, and any artificial darkness she cast to protect them would be quickly dispelled by an army of clerics. Protection from Evil, Turn Undead… the battle would not last half an hour. She reached for her bow, before remembering that she had gifted it to the decoy.

Her hand rose to the three-lined scar on her cheek and she began to scratch at it absent mindedly.

"Come on Dorn…" she whispered. "Where are you?"

* * *

* * *

The night's battle began well for the Order. They came upon the dead at a crossroads, close to where they expected to find them, Sir Ryan Trawl's company cutting off any possibility of retreat. Dorn was still grinning.

"Is this all?" Keldorn asked as he surveyed the opposing army.

"No," Anomen replied with certainty. "When I was held captive by Arowan, her army was about this size and she has been growing it since then."

"She'll have lost some to the fire giants," Keldorn pointed out.

"Not this many."

"She may be preparing to flank us when we charge," the older knight grimaced. "Corpses buried by the track, that sort of thing."

"Impossible, she won't have had time," replied Anomen, "Perchance she has undead archers concealed somewhere?"

"Zombies don't make good archers. Too stiff." Keldorn squinted at the distance between themselves and the dead. He too suspected a trick, but whatever it was he could not deduce it. "No matter her scheme, we have no choice but to risk an attack."

He raised his voice, galloping along the ranks of mounted warriors to address his men.

"Keep your eyes open and your wits sharp!" he ordered. "Helm and Torm will be with us against these cursed undead, but the necromancer and the Blackguard are formidable foes. Do not underestimate them. For the Radiant Heart, for the gods and for the living! Charge!"

The knights urged their steeds forward. Clattering hooves became a rumble and then a mighty roar as the horses built up speed. They closed the distance to the undead and fell upon them like a breaking wave.

Flanked and assaulted from the side, the first line were crushed beneath the horses' hooves before they had even turned around. Of the remaining dead, their responses were sluggish and half-hearted. The fire giants swung unthinkingly, almost at random, at the charging knights. On the few occasions they succeeded in unsaddling one it was more by luck than judgement.

Anomen focussed his energies and called upon his god to grant a False Dawn. He was not alone in doing so, and for a moment the battle had to pause, for the knights were too dazzled to fight on without risking striking their own kin. The clerics of the Order had expected such spells to be countered by the powerful necromancer and had thus not counted on their combined light being so effective.

As the glare died down, many of the Order were left with their arms shielding their eyes against the light. It took several minutes of groping and confusion before their eyes readjusted to the moon and torchlit gloom.

The undead were in a worse state. By the time Anomen regained his sight there was nothing left but ashes and burnt out husks of bodies. Many of the drow corpses had been dead since the sacking of Urst-Natha and the stench was unbelievable. Knights on horses picked their way slowly through the carnage, unsure of what to make of such an easy victory.

"Sir!" a young squire rode up to him at a gallop on his gelding. "I regret to inform you, my Lord Delryn, that Sir Ryan Trawl has fallen."

"Fallen?" Anomen frowned. "How?"

"We were sent with Sir Ryan to cut off the retreat," the scrawny trainee squirmed awkwardly in his oversized armour. "When the False Dawns went off we were distracted, though not so blinded as the main army, I'll warrant. A rider came galloping out of the glare, a living one. We could not see until he was right upon us that he was not one of our own but a half-orc with a right evil look about him. Sir Ryan tried to block him, but the half-orc struck him from his horse as he rode past without even slowing down."

"Did you give chase?"

"Nay my Lord. His horse was already at full charge, and a more powerful beast than any but Sir Ryan's own mount. There was no hope of catching him."

"Where was he headed?"

"South-east my Lord."

"And was there another rider with him? A human woman in wizard's robes?"

"No, my Lord. Just him."

A flicker of hope sparked in Anomen's eyes and he cast around for Sir Keldorn's emerald green armour. The older knight was listening intently to another rider, no doubt relaying the same message as Anomen had just received. He nodded soberly, then cantered over, removing his helm as he went.

"We carry the day with but one loss," Keldorn cried, "Albeit a great one. Sir Ryan Trawl was one of the best among us. Arowan's army is obliterated, save for the blackguard, Dorn Il-Khan."

"Has there been any sighting of Arowan herself?" Anomen asked urgently. "The light would not harm the living, she must be found at once!"

Immediately an order to comb the battlefield was given and it was not long before a shout came out from amongst the blubbery giants' remains.

"My Lords! Arowan's body has been found!" the message came through.

Anomen and Keldorn exchanged a look.

"That is not possible," Keldorn replied. "Bhaalspawn turn to dust upon death."

"Perhaps so, my Lords, but she matches the description we were given right enough."

The men dismounted and led their horses between two hill-like fallen fire giants. There, pawing the ground nervously, stood a white gelding. Its rider was half-hanging off it, her head dangling downward, with her long brown hair sweeping the dirty ground. She was prevented from falling off the horse altogether by her gloved hands and booted legs, which had been tied to the reigns and stirrups.

Irenicus's robes were unique and unmistakable and Anomen knew the bow from as long as he had known its owner. He approached the unmoving figure cautiously.

"Carefully now," warned Keldorn. "If she has not dusted, she must be alive."

"I don't think so!" exclaimed the messenger, and several of the gathered knights laughed.

The reason for their incredulity became apparent, when Anomen pushed back her hair. The False Dawns had reduced the rider to no more than a skeleton and a crumbling one at that. At the brush of his hand, the charred skull began to disintegrate.

"Is this what they mean by the Bhaalspawn dusting, Sir?" asked one of the knights, confused.

"No," Anomen replied. He had heard enough times now the stories of how Freya, Eric and Sarevok met their end, and there was nothing golden or divine about the greasy layer of ash now covering his fingertips. "This isn't Arowan."

He pulled the gloves from her hands. The fingers beneath it remained intact, for the powerful magics of Ellesime's gloves and Irenicus's robes had protected the zombie's body from utter destruction.

"It hasn't got her rings," he said decisively. "Thrice damn her, this was nothing but a decoy!"

Anomen hurled his helmet to the ground and booted it in frustration.

"Keep your spirits up, we've got her on the run now," Keldorn assured him. Anomen gawped at him in disbelief, but the older knight had the benefit of more experience and he recognized desperation in an enemy when he saw it. "Consider that she has sacrificed three artefacts of great power; the gloves, the robes and the bow, simply in order to avoid facing us in battle. Not to mention a sizable chunk of her army. She would not have done as much if she believed herself capable of defeating us."

Resolutely, Anomen lifted his helm, though not before wiping the decoy's ashes off on its own robes. He tucked it under his arm and returned to Keldorn, considering his words.

"No. Perhaps not," he conceded. "I was sure that there must be a trick somewhere in this attack, but I imagined she would manipulate us into a defeat. Truth be told, it had not occurred to me that she would avoid the battle altogether."

"Evil is never so omnipotent as it likes to portray itself," Keldorn said wisely. "Arowan is powerful, only a fool would deny it, but she has her limits. We have weakened her this night. When next we meet we shall destroy her once and for all."

"And Dorn will pay for his crimes," breathed Anomen. He rammed his helmet back onto his head and remounted his horse. "Let us burn what remains of the dead and ride on from this accursed place. We shall put some distance between ourselves and this stench afore making camp."

Keldorn was about to ask in which direction they would ride, when he was interrupted by an unearthly screech of incandescent fury. Melissan had found the false Arowan.

"WHICH WAY DID THE ORC WHO KILLED SIR RYAN RIDE?" she demanded.

"What the devil are you doing here?" retorted Anomen rudely.

Melissan ignored him. Her meekness and humility were nowhere in sight. Her blue eyes burned murderously and her teeth were clenched like a grinning skull. Keldorn's horse took a step backward.

"Calm yourself, dear lady!" he cried.

"WHICH WAY?"

"South-east," Anomen replied slowly.

"Sendai!" Melissan's eyes darted back and forth. "She is attacking Sendai. Good. We can pitch camp outside her lair, let them fight it out and then slaughter the winner."

"Who is Sendai?" asked Keldorn.

"A drow Bhaalspawn, every inch as foul and murderous as Arowan herself," Melissan promised them. "Here, I will show you on a map. Let the enchantresses weaken each other and then we will have them. I can aid you against their magics. Arowan has handed me the tools of her own destruction. Give me the robes and the gloves she used to hide that zombie and I-"

"No."

Her blue eyes glared up, and for a split second, Anomen imagined her running a dagger across his throat. He and Keldorn had spoken as one in refusing her request.

"No? Are you mad?" she hissed. "I can help you to defeat their vile magics if you will give me the means to!"

"Those artefacts are cursed, I can sense their evil from here, child," Keldorn said. "Perhaps they were not always so, but once a magical object has been used to perform enough evil deeds it soaks the darkness from its owner. Arowan's clothes shall go onto the fire with the bodies."

Melissan practically hissed at them, but there was nothing she could do save storm away. Her red hair tumbling down her shoulders gave the impression of an erupting volcano as she left.

"What of the bow?" asked Anomen. "Coran is aiding Viconia and he is an archer not without skill."

"I sense no darkness about the bow," Keldorn replied, unstrapping the weapon and turning it over in his hands, feeling the wood. "I doubt she has used it much since her fall and it has both light and dark in its short history. Keep it, and return it to the elf when next you encounter him. Come now, let us dispose of the refuse."

Hours later, the Order set off after Arowan once more, though she had a vast head-start on them and both horses and riders were fatigued. Behind them they left burning pyres, on one of which the robes of Irenicus and the gloves of his former lover shrivelled together leaving only embers.

* * *

* * *

The true dawn flooded pale light across the horizon. Arowan watched it alone, as her army turned restlessly in their shallow graves.

A cold smile broke across her freckled face, streaked with blood from where she had been scratching at her scar. It looked out of place, for to look at her pale face one would not imagine that there was any blood left in it at all.

Dorn hauled on the reigns of his horse, drawing the exhausted beast to a standstill beside her and dismounted. He was still clutching his dripping red sword.

Arowan did not waste words of greeting on him. Instead she turned her dark eyes south east to where Sendai was waiting in her enclave, unaware of her impending doom.


	26. Sinners' Refuge

"She is coming."

Seven hooded figures stood about a round table once more. This time it glistened with a pale magical light. Images of people were moving inside it. A human monk kicking in a door, an armoured swordsman hacking at their enemies by his side, a druid and an elfin archer covering the rear and behind them their target.

"I'm still not sure this is wise…" ventured the Ilmatari representative. The other clerics paid him as much attention as they ever did.

"Why are you still here, loathsome breeder of weakness?" asked Lolth's handmaiden scornfully. "As I recall you were only invited to join us because Arowan was of your faith. It is clear that she no longer heeds the whinging of Ilmater, so why should we?"

" _You_ were only invited because the Servant of all Faiths was once a follower of Lolth!" retorted the Ilmatari tetchily. "She no longer is, so will you leave with me?"

"Only so that I can stab you on the way out."

"Save your childish bickering," hissed Alorgoth. An eager smile was creeping over his face as he watched Viconia's approach. "Soon she will be entrapped in the Shadow Realm and _I_ shall take her place as the Servant of all Faiths, just as Shar always intended. My mistress is testing me, but she shall not find me wanting."

"Doubtless Lolth will be pleased when I inform her of my role in Viconia's demise," the drow priestess nodded, mollified.

"But the gods did choose her…" the Ilmatari ventured bravely.

He swallowed. The way Alorgoth and Lolth's Handmaiden were looking at him, the only question was which of them would get to him first, yet he had a duty to try to inject some reason into the conversation. No matter how doomed to futility his attempt might be.

"Aye, aye… They did," agreed Prelate Wessalen, rubbing his beard. "But when they chose her, she was a contender to become Matron Mother of a powerful drow house. That whole business with defecting to the surface… she did that on her own. Alorgoth has the entire Dark Moon Cult at his beck and call. The Order is already in the field ready to do battle with Arowan's forces. With such an alliance we surely stand a better chance than one lone drow."

"I dinnae care who hacks the head off that blasted Bhaalspawn so long as the job gets done!" seconded the dwarf.

The faith leaders of the land continued to watch the progress of Viconia's party in their magic table. Every so often they shot each other filthy looks. Like the gods they represented, little bonded them together except for the need to stop Arowan.

"And then there's the fact that it could put a lot of power in the hands of a drow," the paladin added.

In response, Lolth's priestess drew a black-tipped dagger and raked it slowly across the back of his chair. The wood hissed and released acrid fumes where it touched it. She eyed Wessalen threateningly.

"Behaviour like that does nothing to convince me that placing such power in the hands of your people is a good idea."

"Viconia DeVir is not one of _my_ people!" screeched the drow. Her mouth against his ear was so loud and shrill that it made the paladin wince.

"Oh dear!" moaned Ilmater's priest and the others followed his gaze.

Rasaad had crushed the windpipe of one of the Sharran guards with his fist and abandoned him choking to death slowly. Viconia and Sarevok stepped over the writhing man indifferently, and it was left to Coran to put the unfortunate man out of his misery.

"They're barely fighting back!" marvelled the Ilmatari. "They're letting themselves be injured or killed!"

"I ordered them to," replied Alorgoth uncaringly. "And they fear me far more than they fear death."

"But it ain't like they can kill the Servant of all Faiths. Yeh may as well let the poor buggers fight back!" chipped in the dwarf.

"They can't kill her, but they might kill Rasaad yn Bashir, and if he dies who will lead Viconia into my trap? Speaking of which, I should be getting downstairs to welcome our visitors," Alorgoth noted. "I take it my 'prisoners' have been briefed?"

The dwarf cleric nodded her head, making her braided beard dance.

"Aye. They'll send the monk into the crystal caves for yeh," she replied. "If any of my people get hurt in this attack I ain't going to be happy, mind."

"My monks have been told to only give the _appearance_ of harming the dwarves. We are allies after all," Alorgoth replied silkily. "I cannot vouch for the behaviour of the mad Selunite or his whore, though the elf appears to be curbing their worst excesses."

"And you'll be taking yerself and yer thugs out of the mountain once the drow is trapped?" the dwarf pressed, twirling her axe.

"Relish my next words," Alorgoth sneered, "For it is a rare fortune to hear the truth from my tongue. Yet I can say with utter veracity that I have no interest in occupying your festering rat hole one moment longer than is necessary. It reeks of sulfur and petty greed. I freely admit that under normal circumstances we might have tarried a time to remove your blasphemous tongues for their failure to raise their voices in the worship of Almighty Shar. Sadly my loyal followers and I will be busy destroying the upstart Adversary, so there won't be time."

"How reassuring," muttered the dwarf.

"You don't trust the power of the Servant of all Faiths to a drow, but he's fine?" the Handmaiden asked Wessalen coolly.

"I can't say I much care for either of you, but humans have shorter life expectancies. There's a limit to how much damage Alorgoth can do," the paladin answered, with ill-founded optimism. "This plan was long in the making, we are committed now."

"What do we do if they decide to come up here?" asked the drow suddenly.

"This is my mountain, I know all the back passages," replied the dwarf. "But Rasaad ain't got no reason to be coming up here. My people will direct him downstairs to Alorgoth. Yeh can leave if yeh like. As for me, I'm going to stay and watch."

"As am I," replied Wessalen grimly. "I wish you luck Doombringer, though it feels damned strange to say so. The fate of us all is in your hands."

"Luck?" smiled Alorgoth. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

* * *

* * *

Rasaad snapped the neck of an acolyte unlucky enough to cross his path and strode on like a man possessed. The others could barely keep up with him. Sarevok wrenched his sword from the flabby torso of a skewered cleric and turned to the elf.

"Remind you of someone?" he asked unpleasantly.

Coran flinched.

"You're talking about Freya aren't you?" asked Jaheira. Coran already knew the answer.

"I know that stride, that expression. It was exactly how that evil bitch looked when she kicked in the door to our father's temple. Right before she murdered me."

The archer notched a fresh arrow and followed Rasaad into the next room, unable to articulate a response. Freya had not only killed Sarevok, she had briefly lost control of her lycanthropy and tried to eat him, a fate which he'd only avoided by dusting. This was the first time that Sarevok had raised the subject of Coran's involvement in his death, though he had expected that it would come up sooner or later.

"You have a gall holding a grudge over that, Sarevok," he replied bluntly. "You were the aggressor, not us. What were we supposed to do? Do nothing and wait for one of your assassins to get lucky?"

"You are mistaken. I do not begrudge your role in my demise. I would have done the same to you without hesitation."

"Erm… good?"

Rasaad had found what appeared to be Alorgoth's private rooms and was ransacking them from top to bottom. There were no enemies in here and, to Coran's surprise, no apparent traps. They let the monk get on with ripping the stuffing from the mattress and wrenching the handles from drawers in the hope that some of his anger might burn itself out.

"Rage to the point of madness produces collateral damage," Sarevok observed. "It did with Freya, and I will be surprised if it does not do the same with Rasaad before he meets his target."

Turning directly to face the other man, Coran noticed that Sarevok was over a foot taller and comfortably twice his weight. Golden eyes glared down so malevolently on him that his first instinct was to raise his bow in self-defence, but he resisted the urge. It would be a short fight.

"I thought you said you didn't hold your death against me?"

"I don't. I hold _Tamoko's_ death against you."

"Who…?" Coran began.

Sarevok seized him by the scarf and lifted him clear off his feet. He dropped the bow which fell to the floor with a clatter. Kicking and struggling was of no use against the more powerful man.

"If you have forgotten her, I swear that I will snap your scrawny neck in Freya's place!" Sarevok roared.

"You will put him down immediately!" commanded Jaheira.

Coran's life flashed before his eyes. Specifically, that short but eventful part of his life spent with Freya adventuring along the Sword Coast. He pictured the countless anonymous Iron Throne guards who'd fallen in their path. Then the bandits, who Coran remembered more vividly on account of Freya's total lack of scruples when it came to scalping them and selling the gruesome trophies to Officer Vai in Beregost. Then he recalled a face. A sad, resigned woman approaching from the steps of the temple where Sarevok was hiding. Freya had sent her head bouncing away down the temple steps while barely slowing her pace.

"Tamoko! Kara-Turan woman!"

Sarevok released his grip and Coran went sprawling, the scarf falling away. As he sat up massaging his neck, Sarevok noticed the rope scar around it and his golden eyes narrowed. There was a sudden crunch of wood, as Rasaad kicked in the side of a locked wardrobe and both men startled.

"Why didn't you stop her?" Sarevok demanded.

"It was over before I even knew what she was about to do!" protested the elf, getting to his feet. "And nothing I said or did would have stopped her when she was that close to you. You saw to that when you murdered Gorion. I'd have a better chance of stopping Rasaad right now! Why did you send her out to face the Hero of Baldur's Gate all by herself? You _must_ have known it was a death sentence!"

Coran regretted those last words as soon as he'd uttered them- but too late, they had already escaped his lips. Sarevok spasmed with fury, and his sword was halfway to the elf's scarred throat before the other man got a grip on himself.

Fortunately for them both, Rasaad stormed between them on his way out, forcing them apart. He was stuffing some artefacts from the wardrobe into his pack: a cloak, a headband and some sinister black boots.

"What are you doing?" he bellowed, then before either man could answer he went on, "There is no time for your fooling around! We are supposed to be finding Alorgoth!"

Without looking at Coran, Sarevok swept out after the monk and there was a renewed viciousness in his fighting from that point on. There seemed to be less Sharrans around when they emerged, as though the defenders were deliberately taking themselves out of harm's way. Two of the stragglers were hovering near a large, conspicuous looking door.

"Intruders!" cried a Sharran monk theatrically. "Shani, seal the door! We _definitely_ don't want Rasaad going into that room and interrogating the dwarf prisoners in there. If he does they'll tell him where our master is!"

((Several floors above their heads, the Handmaiden of Lolth smacked her head against the magical table with a moan of ' _amateurs._ '))

"Where is Alorgoth, dog?" cried Rasaad.

"You'll never know dead man!" exclaimed the Sharran, before vanishing behind the forbidden door.

This was one which not even the monk's rage could force and he was forced to wait, panting and furious while Coran painstakingly picked it. For such an important door it was a surprisingly simple mechanism. No more difficult than breaking into the backdoor of a tavern. Once it clicked open Rasaad thrust his way in.

Nothing was in the room save for the monks and a single large cage containing two dwarves wearing bored expressions.

"You're killing us, Sharrans. You know that don't you? We've barely had an hour's rest in the past two days!" wailed one of them.

"Working doing what?" frowned Viconia, eyeing the cage with suspicion. The two dwarves were locked in it by themselves with seemingly nothing to do.

"We will kill you before you can tell them anything!" cried the Sharran man very loudly.

"Oh no. Spare us." the dwarf replied mechanically.

"Die like my brother died. Dark Moon worm," blazed Rasaad.

"I will gladly die in service to my lord Alorgoth!" cried Shani truthfully.

Her male companion seemed less keen. He stood with her back-to-back, arms raised in a defensive posture.

"Let us out of here and we'll keep these dogs busy while you go for the leader!" cried the trapped dwarf. At once Coran began to pick the feeble lock while Rasaad demanded to know where Alorgoth was. The dwarf seemed eager to provide an answer. "Down in the caves! Just follow the purple crystals. Now brothers! Let's show these Shar-licking mongrels what Deepstone's made of!"

He and his partner ran at the monks, fists and beards flailing. Rasaad was already out of the door, followed by Sarevok and Jaheira but Viconia grabbed Coran by the arm.

"Look darthiir!" she hissed.

Coran paused and watched the fight between the dwarves and the Sharrans. The monks were dodging around their stocky opponents' fists and kicks but making no serious attempt to retaliate. In fact, the longer they watched, the more it looked like a stage fight. Shani glanced up, caught Viconia's red eyed gaze and stabbed the nearest dwarf with a dagger.

"What in blazers do ye think yer playing at?" howled his fellow captive. "That wasn't the deal-" but his words were cut off by a dagger through his throat.

Shani was glaring viciously at Viconia, her male companion simply looked resigned.

"For Shar!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "Die, apostate filth!"

The elf's arrow pierced her eye before she had taken two steps toward Viconia. The last Sharran standing looked utterly miserable.

"Would you rather just run away?" Coran suggested humanely.

The monk shook his head glumly.

"Wanted that for years," he muttered, "But I ain't gonna, and if you'd seen what the master does to traitors you'd know why. Just make it quick, would you?"

Viconia nodded and moved forward swiftly as the man screwed shut his eyes. A quick knife across the jugular and it was done. He slumped forward splattering her silver hair with blood.

"You can't just-" Coran began, but she turned to him with a most un-Viconia-like expression. She looked almost… defeated.

"What Alorgoth does to traitors is doubtless along similar lines to what the Handmaidens of Lolth do and I've experienced that first-hand," she sighed. "Now let us move. We need to stop Rasaad."

* * *

* * *

Viconia hurried after Rasaad down a long ladder leading into the mines, a confused Coran scrambling down behind her. The mines were lit by torches though strangely only along one path. After a time, the need for them ran out, for there was light of a sort provided by strange purple crystals embedded in the walls. They lit everything in an eerie purple glow, yet seemed to suck away all light except their own.

Viconia surrounded herself with protective enchantments only to find, to her horror, that they did not work here.

"That's strange," murmured Coran. "Look! There they are!"

They had stopped, to Rasaad's obvious frustration, because Sarevok had inexplicably collapsed. The monk was hastily dragging him backward by his shoulders while Jaheira cast healing spells over him.

"Urrgh!" Sarevok was moaning, clutching his sides and rocking back and forth. "Get them away from me! My _head!"_

"What happened? Was he poisoned?" Viconia asked urgently, peering into Sarevok's face. She attempted a healing spell, but these would not work either in the presence of the crystals. With a frustrated groan she glared at her own hands. Jaheira's spells seemed to be working perfectly, so why were hers failing?

"I do not know," Rasaad panted. "He started to complain of feeling strange as we were walking down this tunnel, and then he told me he had a headache. A few steps later his legs gave out from under him."

"It is the crystals!" Sarevok moaned. "Get me away from them, _please!"_

It was not like Sarevok to beg. They hauled him back down the tunnel and as the number of crystals began to dwindle, his moaning quietened. By the time they reached the torches he was able to sit up, looking pale and clammy but refusing Viconia's healing spells which were now working again.

"I do not understand it!" Rasaad howled. His brown eyes gazed longingly down the tunnel where Alorgoth was even now awaiting his vengeance.

"I think I might," replied Jaheira. "Druidic spells work in the presence of the crystals but clerical ones do not, and our demigod cannot enter. It seems the rocks in this place block the connection between the mortal realm and the gods."

"Why would Alorgoth hide from me in such a place, away from the protection of Shar?" Rasaad asked, his anger temporarily replaced by bemusement. "I am the younger man, and fitter. Surely he must realise that separation from our goddesses hands the advantage to me?"

"This is a trap," Coran said. "Rasaad was right and I was wrong, the dwarves are in on it. They weren't even hurting each other until one of the Sharrans noticed that Viconia was getting suspicious. When she stabbed one of the dwarves, the look on his friend's face! I've not seen a man look so surprised since Lord Scotrum walked into his mother's bedroom to find us… well this might not be the time for that particular story," he finished, catching Rasaad's eye.

Rasaad looked down the tunnel at the distant glint of purple crystals.

"Whatever Alorgoth has planned we must defeat him," he said resolutely.

From the floor Sarevok shook his head. There was no way that he could so much as crawl while surrounded by those crystals, never mind do battle.

"There is one way to test my theory. Coran, summon Bhaal," Jaheira said reluctantly.

Coran took a knife from his belt with shaky hands and pulled out the Girdle of Femininity. It was getting tricky to find space on his scabbed arm to make a clean slice.

"I can't promise he'll come," said the elf. "This is the first time we've tried to call him since Yaga-Shura died. I don't know whether he'll have had time to get to grips with those memories yet."

He called Bhaal forth and they waited. Presently there was a clicking of little claws and a small dog with drooping, skinless ears padded out from behind a rock.

NO… NO, NO, NO I CAN'T…

"Shut up!" snapped Jaheira.

She scooped Bhaal up, tucked him under her arm and ran down the tunnel like a quarterback. As they approached the crystals he squirmed, yelped and then sank his protruding teeth into her arm. Jaheira had been expecting a reaction like this and released him, drop kicking the god hard in the direction of the crystals. Bhaal's eyes swivelled madly in their sockets, and he started to howl plaintively as he made a graceful arc through the air, but by the time he landed he was rigidly still.

To the druid's mild surprise his avatar was not destroyed. Instead, as she approached him cautiously, she saw no sign of response at all. The ugly little thing was completely frozen and as hard as ice when she prodded him with her staff.

"Interesting," she murmured.

"What did you do to him!" screamed Coran, skidding to Bhaal's side.

"I was merely testing whether it was Sarevok's divine essence which was affected by the crystals," she shrugged. "It appears I was correct."

Coran scooped up Bhaal in his arms and carried him back to Sarevok as gently as he could. As they got away from the crystals' purple glare, the little dog began to squirm pitifully. Coran took off his cloak and wrapped him in it, using his scarf as a pillow. It gave the impression of a very ugly swaddling baby.

"Are you alright, mate?" the elf whispered, stroking his horrible fleshless head. Bhaal raised the tip of his muzzle blearily.

I WOULD REALLY, REALLY, _REALLY_ APPRECIATE IT IF YOU GUYS DIDN'T DO THAT AGAIN. EVER.

"What are those crystals?"

YOU COULDN'T HAVE JUST ASKED ME THAT INSTEAD OF CHUCKING ME AT THEM?

"You seemed too self-obsessed to provide a coherent answer," Jaheira replied, her hand on her hip.

HOW ABOUT WE PUT YAGA-SHURA'S MEMORIES INTO YOUR HEAD, SEE IF YOU HANDLE IT BETTER?

Jaheira's lip was curling. Perhaps Bhaal feared that the druid might boot him into the midst of the crystals again out of spite, but he suddenly sat on his haunches, projecting an eagerness to cooperate.

SINNERS' REFUGE THEY'RE CALLED. THEY STIFLE A DEITY'S SENSES. ONE OF THE VERY FEW DEFENSES THAT A MORTAL CAN USE EFFECTIVELY AGAINST THE PANTHEON.

"You have encountered them before?"

THEY'RE RARE. WE TEND TO COMMAND OUR FOLLOWERS TO CHUCK THE WRETCHED THINGS INTO VOLCANOS WHEN THEY FIND THEM. OR FAILING THAT BURY THEM REALLY DEEP UNDERGROUND BUT BANE AND MYRKLE DID THEIR HOMEWORK WHEN IT CAME TO CHALLENGING IMMORTALS. THEY HAD A HANDFUL OF PEBBLES. NOTHING LIKE THIS.

"How can Sarevok pass them?" Rasaad asked. "How can Viconia use her spells in this mine?"

HE CAN'T AND SHE CAN PRAY TO SHAR UNTIL HER EARS TURN BLUE FOR ALL THE GOOD IT WILL DO. SHAR CANNOT HEAR YOU DOWN HERE.

Viconia's breath caught. Up until now, despite all the odds piled against her, she had one protection: her status as the Servant of all Faiths. In this place that would mean nothing. She could die like anybody else and yet Alorgoth was at a similar disadvantage. It seemed unlikely that the aging man would be able to defeat Rasaad and Coran to get to her without Shar's aid. Even so…

VICONIA HAD BETTER STAY HERE WITH SAREVOK AND CORAN. SHE CAN'T HELP YOU MUCH DOWN THERE AND NO HARD FEELINGS, RASAAD, BUT SHE'S MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU ARE.

"What's stopping Coran from coming with us, precisely?" asked Jaheira imperiously.

Bhaal paused.

I CAN'T THINK OF A REASON OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD. I JUST DON'T WANT HIM TO DIE.

"But me and Rasaad… you're ok with that?"

Bhaal sensed that he was in imminent danger of another encounter with the crystals.

RASAAD IS HELL BENT… AND YOU AND I WEREN'T AS CLOSE FRIENDS.

"We weren't friends at all," Jaheira corrected him. "I barely knew Freya, and what I did know didn't impress me much. Come on Coran. Viconia, I agree that you ought to stay here with Sarevok."

* * *

* * *

So it was that Rasaad, flanked by the druid and the archer, set off into the tunnels after Alorgoth. Viconia watched them go, angry tears pricking in the corner of her eyes. The moon male might well be about to die and he had not even taken the trouble to say goodbye to her. Bhaal watched Coran walking away and whined pitifully.

Well perhaps she could do better! Sarevok's size fascinated her _and_ he was a demigod _and_ she would love to see the expression on Rasaad's face. It would serve the insipid naval gazer right if he came back from challenging Alorgoth to find her with her legs wrapped around another man.

"I couldn't help overhearing you and Coran arguing before," she purred seductively. "Missing this Tamoko? If you are feeling lonely I could…"

"No thank you," Sarevok replied firmly. Viconia pouted. "Blaming Coran for her death achieves nothing in the end. He was right. I was the one who sent her out to face Freya knowing that she might die. I suspected that she would probably reconcile with our enemies and flee to her homeland, but I knew that there was a chance that she and Freya would end up fighting it out."

I… I'M SORRY.

"What did you say?" the Bhaalspawn asked in disbelief.

Bhaal concentrated. It was difficult and exhausting to adopt any form but his current one. Not only had he failed to repay a longstanding divine debt to the Silvershields as Freya, but Skie Silvershield's soul was trapped inside an evil artefact called the Soultaker dagger and it was largely his fault. The weight of this debt engulfed him which manifested itself in him being stuck as Freya at the moment of her failure to save Skie.

As they watched, golden fur sprouted from the skinless dog's flank, face and tail. It transformed, just as Freya had become so accustomed to changing, teeth shrinking, hips straightening. Clothes materialised over her body; the uniform of a commander of the Flaming Fist.

Memory diluted the impact of Freya's charisma, which struck Viconia like a tidal wave looking at her once more. It was unnerving. The drow had liked her brainless, canine party leader. Apart from Valas, she was the only person whom Viconia had ever trusted totally. Albeit because Freya was too dumb to betray her.

"I'm sorry I murdered Tamoko. I wish I hadn't done it," Freya said. Sarevok staggered to his feet. Despite their complex history, he had never seen his rival in human form up close before. "I did a lot of awful shit. I mean, so did you, but that's not an excuse. I'm sorry, Sarevok."

This few seconds of speech was all Bhaal could manage. Before their eyes Freya's skin was ripped from her again as it had been in Irenicus's dungeon. Viconia clapped her hand to her mouth and screamed. The sound bounced off the walls of the tunnel in a horrible echo. Arowan's description did not nearly do the process justice. That ripping _noise._ They caught one brief glimpse of the hairless dog before Bhaal's avatar disintegrated back into the Abyss.

Sarevok blinked his golden eyes a few times.

"I was not expecting that," he admitted. "Having to merge with Yaga-Shura has struck Bhaal to the core."

"Indeed," replied Viconia, distracted from her original intent. "I wonder what will happen when he finally merges with _you,_ Sarevok."

Sarevok stared at the distant purple rocks, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge something. It was similar to the way Bhaal himself sometimes behaved when a conflict arose between his different personalities.

"There was a time when I believed that merging with the Hero of Baldur's Gate would be worse than the Abyss," he said quietly. "That we had no common ground and that her character would eclipse mine for all eternity. I would be confined to the darker recesses of her mind, banging against her eyes, screaming impotently to get out."

"But now?"

For several minutes Sarevok said nothing. Viconia had accepted that he did not mean to answer her at all until finally, and very quietly, he uttered the words:

"It seems I am not so very different from the Hero of Baldur's Gate. I was never happier than when they called me the Hero of Saradush. Her allies are now my allies. Her quest is now my quest. I am better than I thought I was, and she is worse than I imagined her to be. Perhaps the gulf between us is not so very wide after all."


	27. The Council's Demise

Determined to prove that he was not weak, Sarevok took the first watch, but Viconia seemed to be getting a disturbed rest. She was tossing and turning, as though she were fighting Jaheira's vines rather than her own tangled bedding.

He found himself staring with a horrified fascination at the glowing cave wall at the other end of the tunnel. Rasaad, Coran and Jaheira had been gone a long time. If they failed, he would be the one left to face Alorgoth.

"I could stand between him and Viconia," he muttered to himself. "And give the Servant of all Faiths time to run. If he wins, I'll become part of Bhaal."

Sarevok had extremely mixed feelings about this. He no longer found the notion of merging with Freya as utterly horrific as he once had, but it was hard to sum up genuine enthusiasm for becoming part of Coran's ratty little handbag dog.

"It'd be a temporary state though. Eventually we'd become a god, and not just some minor deity either. A powerful one."

A thought struck him, and he considered waking Viconia up to discuss it at once but he restrained himself. Instead he pondered on it, in as deep a trance as any of Rasaad's meditations, focussing on his father's sword. The light of the torches reflected from it, but the strange purple glow of the crystals did not. He placed it down and had to jump out of the way as it spun around like a compass to point away from the crystals. Apparently, Bhaal's sword did not like them much either.

At length he roused Viconia from her fitful sleep, and she sat up rubbing her red eyes unhappily.

"The others…?"

"Have not returned, but neither has Alorgoth," Sarevok replied as reassuringly as he could. "We must take that as a good sign. Viconia, I would discuss further the matter you brought up last night."

Viconia's chest swelled triumphantly. She had known that no male could resist her forever. Nose stuck in the air and with a provocative flick of her silvery locks she replied with a cool smugness.

"Tough luck male, I have changed my mind."

"I don't understand," Sarevok frowned. Then he realised what she was referring to and added hastily, "No, not about that... About merging with Bhaal."

The drow pouted and sat cross-legged on her sleeping bag looking decidedly put out. She began to busy herself with finding something to eat, making herself a drink, trimming her toenails but it did not escape his notice that every so often she cast an anxious look down the tunnel. He was quite certain that she was not concerned for Jaheira nor Coran.

"Presumably, once you have fulfilled your destiny as the Servant of all Faiths, Arowan will merge with Bhaal as well," he said. "Ironically, by murdering her you may very likely make her a god. Or at least part of one. I was curious as to whether you had given this any thought?"

"Of course I had!" Viconia lied, but her jaw spasmed. She disliked that notion intensely. Her only consolation was the knowledge that Arowan had never had any desire to become Bhaal. Neither before the numbing potions nor after. "What is your point?"

"Only that I wonder what your feelings will be toward Bhaal then?" he asked. "Freya was your ally in life. I am your ally in death. Yet in the end all three of us will become the same person."

"You still intend to bother with us when you are Bhaal?" she replied waspishly. "The gods have little concern for mortals, and _that_ god especially. He paid no attention even to the doings of his own followers! Nyalee and Amelyssan got away with murder!"

The Bhaalspawn let out a low chuckle, sauntered to the wall of the cave and pulled out his tackle to take a piss. It made the drow bristle, but he ignored her. After all there wasn't really anywhere else to go unless he climbed back up to the keep and then supposing Alorgoth came while he was gone to find Viconia all alone? She covered her nose with her sleeve against the steaming arc of yellow liquid and made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

"What are you laughing at, repulsive male?" she snapped.

"Getting away with murder was the whole point of Bhaal's cult, surely?" he laughed, shaking off the drips.

"I simply meant that if he paid no attention to who his own high priestesses were or what they were up to, it is unlikely that he will concern himself with me! It does not matter how I will feel about Bhaal when he merges with Arowan, since I will never speak to him again!"

_And also your worthless soul will be trapped in my webs suffering eternal agonies… don't forget that part!_

For once, Lolth sounded positively cheerful. Viconia screamed involuntarily. Sarevok shoved himself back into his trousers and backed away from her, convinced that she had finally gone stark raving mad.

"What in the hells…?" he muttered.

"It's her, it's Lolth," Viconia cracked, sobbing. "She has been speaking to me, threatening me with her revenge. It's been happening more and more often the more Bhaalspawn die and the closer the prophecy comes to fulfilment. Soon the gods won't need me anymore and she will be free to do as she pleases!"

"Does Rasaad know about this?" he asked, aghast.

"Rasaad doesn't care what happens to me anymore!" Viconia wept. "And even if he did there is nothing that he, or I, or anyone can do. Lolth seems certain that Shar will forsake me and nobody can challenge a deity except for another deity. There is no other defence against the gods!"

She broke off short and her eyes widened. Automatically, both drow and Bhaalspawn turned to stare at the purple crystals in the distance.

"Almost no other defence…" Viconia thought out loud.

_Don't you dare!_

Viconia rose to her feet and gathered her things with a vindictive determination. She had no plan, exactly. Was there any source of food or water in those caves? Probably not. Were her party dead and Alorgoth waiting for her with a dagger? Quite possibly. Yet it was the one place she knew of where at last she could run and Lolth could not follow.

"I cannot protect you if you do this," Sarevok warned her. "I cannot endure the power of the crystals."

She nodded, but her mind was entirely made up. She would show the Spider Queen, if only for a little while. Perhaps she would show all of the gods who were preparing to toss her so casually aside as soon as her use to them had ended. If Alorgoth killed her in the mines, shielded from their sight and protection, they would have lost their Chosen One. Perhaps they could agree on another… but would there be time to find a candidate they could all accept before Arowan detonated Bhaal's essence?

"I may not be able to escape them, but I can make the bastards sweat!" Viconia whispered.

_Come back here at once, you noisome little maggot! You will not go that way! Do not be a fool Viconia… you will die…_

…Lolth's voice faded to nothing, and Viconia found herself bathed in the purple glow of the crystals. There was no natural light left down here and her Underdark senses had long dulled from lack of use. Even smell and sound were unnaturally absent, save for the cautious tread of her own footsteps.

Calling out for the others might well attract the wrong sort of attention. It would make sense to find them instead of meandering about alone but she seemed to be caught in a sort of labyrinth of branching passageways. After wandering for some time she was quite sure that she was lost. Every so often a familiar outcrop of purple crystals made her suspect that the passageways were looping back and she was going around in circles.

"Damn you Alorgoth! Stop hiding and face me!" Rasaad's voice reverberated from a tunnel to her right.

Her heart leapt and she ran down it without another thought, rounding a bend to almost cannon into Coran, Rasaad and Jaheira.

"Nine hells Viconia! I almost shot you!" Coran cried, relaxing his bow string.

"What are you doing here!" Rasaad demanded sharply.

Viconia bit her lip. She had mentioned nothing of Lolth's recent tormenting of her to the monk and she was not minded to demonstrate her weakness now.

"Alorgoth is my enemy too, and you are too feeble to defeat him alone!" she spat. "You cannot even find him, fungus-minded mooncalf! You have been searching all this time, tell me, where is Alorgoth!"

"Right here," a cold voice chuckled in reply, "We were just waiting for you to arrive before we get this party started."

Even in the unnatural light of the crystals it was possible to see the colour leave Coran's face. He raised his bow and pointed it at a cowled figure who was stepping down the tunnel toward them. Beside him, the body too large to fit down the passageway, snaked the long, serpentine head of a shadow dragon.

"Not again!" the elf moaned.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I wish Firkraag would show up again!" Jaheira muttered.

Her wish was in vain, however. This time they were on their own. The dragon stretched out her scaley talons like a cat reaching down a mousehole and there was no resisting them. Even Rasaad's strength was not enough, and Coran's bow snapped against his arm stabbing him with splinters. It dragged them back through the tunnels while they squirmed uselessly.

"Alorgoth!" howled Rasaad.

"What is this voice I hear?" taunted the Dark Moon leader. "Who are you, stranger?"

"You know my name, fiend!"

"He is provoking you, Rasaad. Don't succumb to rage!" Jaheira panted. They still had a chance, albeit a small one, because druidic magic still worked amongst the crystals. The battle upstairs had drained all of her best abilities but perhaps if they could keep Alorgoth talking long enough she might have the opportunity to catch him by surprise.

"Rasaad, is it?" mused Alorgoth. "The name seems… familiar."

"You killed my brother!"

"I've killed many men's brothers. Could you be more specific?"

The party were thrown backward into a cave before he could answer, and the dragon reached out to snatch Jaheira's staff and Coran's arrows. Then she curled herself up in front of the entrance, leaving no way out and only a narrow slither to let in air.

Now Rasaad truly had the opportunity to burn out his rage. No amount of punching and kicking against the dragon's scaley backside made the slightest impact. Viconia sat hunched with her back against a large crystal and watched him miserably. He had got her captured and in all likelihood sealed all their fates, yet still he could think of nothing but Alorgoth.

"What are you doing?" Coran blinked, for Jaheira promptly unrolled her sleeping bag, went to the toilet behind a crystal, calmly ate a few mouthfuls of bread and settled down to sleep.

"Refreshing my spells," she mouthed. The others looked at her hopefully, for they had quite forgotten that unlike clerical spells her magics were still effective.

They settled down in the unnatural silence and at length even Rasaad was overcome with fatigue and forced to join them. He had to marvel at Jaheira's ability to keep calm in a crisis, for she was already snoring lightly. It took him longer but he had exerted himself so heavily that day that sleep dragged him away whether he wanted it to or not.

* * *

* * *

"I call dibs!" Lolth's handmaiden declared hungrily.

The other religious leaders looked at her quizzically, so she pointed a jewelled finger at the magical table, where Sarevok's image was peeing against the cave wall.

"The large male has an impressive member," she smirked. "I shall have him later."

"Everything that's going on and all yeh can think about is lust?" thundered the furious dwarf.

Prelate Wessalen was doing his best to calm her down but she had taken the stabbing of two of her followers by the Sharran monks very badly. It had not even succeeded in keeping up the pretence, for Viconia and the elf had seen straight through it.

"At least she is going into the caves," the relieved paladin mopped his brow. "I had thought for a moment she wouldn't but now… what's wrong with you?"

Lolth's Handmaiden had gone rigid with panic. All traces of her smirk vanished and she began to shake like she was having a seizure. A nasty rustling noise like the scuttling of a thousand legs filled the room and the conspirators felt sticky as though covered in cobwebs.

_What do you think you are doing?_

"Replacing the apostate Viconia with another Servant of all Faiths!" the petrified drow prostrated herself upon the stone floor. "For you, my Queen! I could not allow her disloyalty to my wonderous mistress of cruelty to go unpunished!"

_The Servant of all Faiths cannot be replaced! I would have told you as much had you thought to ask me first, grovelling worm. Retrieve her at once! If she dies, I will show you the true meaning of cruelty and punishment!_

"Yes, my Queen, at once!" screeched the drow, knocking over her chair in her haste to obey.

"I think not!" thundered Wessalen. "Your foul mistress seeks to keep the Servant of all Faiths as a drow. We might have predicted as much!"

Spiders began to erupt from the walls and ceilings, scuttling toward him with murderous intent, but the paladin stood firm. Lolth's screech was deafening, echoing not only in their small chamber but up through the mountain and all the way to the heavens themselves.

_Helm, Torm, you worthless rivvil males! Instruct your pet idiot to get out of the way!_

There was a dazzling burst of holy light. Lolth's cobwebs and spiders evaporated, for she was an Underdark goddess and held less power so far from her own domain. Figures appeared in the room, too bright for mortal eyes to look directly at their faces. Three were men, appearing as blinding statues of pure light, one a dwarf of resplendent gold.

Only one god had appeared who could be looked upon directly. He was a short, unimposing man with a plain but kind face. He wore only a ragged cloth around his middle and his exposed body bore the marks of torture. Scabbed wounds, burns and open cuts. His limbs were twisted and broken yet he seemed comforting rather than terrifying.

It was his follower alone who did not throw himself flat in panic, but instead faced his Lord standing.

"My Lord Ilmater?"

"You have all made a terrible mistake. Viconia must be brought back," the god said in a soft, kind voice that was not quite human but far closer than that of Bhaal or Lolth. "Alorgoth cannot replace her as the Servant of all Faiths. The others will not pour their powers into such a creature as he."

He glanced almost reprovingly at the stubborn avatars of Torm and Helm, but the two remained silent and unflinching.

"Forgive me, my Lords!" prelate Wessalen sobbed from the floor.

YOU HAVE ALLIED WITH THE SHADOWS.

"Please, give me a chance to redeem myself," the paladin wailed. "I have dedicated my whole life to the service of that which is honourable and just! Forgive me for faltering in my old age!"

UNTIL YOU HAVE RETRIEVED THE SERVANT OF ALL FAITHS YOUR REDEMPTION IS NOT IMPORTANT.

There was nothing human or reassuring about these voices. The gods he had looked to all his life might be just and honourable but they were also aloof, judgemental and cold. Prelate Wessalen turned his watering eyes to the kindly face of Ilmater.

"Go now," urged the crying god. "Remember that the crystals prevent us from aiding you in those caves but if you can get Viconia clear of their influence, we can do the rest. Go!"

Ilmater's priest did not need telling again. He led his shaking and petrified fellows down the stairs and to the caves below.

* * *

* * *

Viconia had already slept and was too wide awake to rest again so soon. She couldn't tell whether Coran was sleeping with his eyes open or whether he could not sleep at all and Rasaad...

The monk was making no sound but his teeth were gritted in pain. He was curled shivering around his pack, squeezing it so tightly that she would be surprised if much of the content were left undamaged by morning.

She bit the corner of her lip. He did not even look like himself anymore. Recently he had been neglecting his grooming rituals and a layer of thick black hair had taken the opportunity to sprout like wild grass. It really quite suited him from a purely aesthetic point of view, but Viconia did not like what it was saying about his mental state.

More than anything she wanted to close the distance between them, sit by him and stroke his new hair until he slipped into a more peaceful rest, the way he used to do for her... but she forced herself to look away. They were no longer bonded in that way. That door was closed forever.

The monk had hurt her, far more than Lolth's handmaidens had ever managed to. She was so lost in thought that at first she did not notice hours later when the shadow dragon lifted her thick tail to form a sort of doorway to let Alorgoth through. He sneered at Rasaad's sleeping, shivering form.

"So who do we have here? I'm afraid Yxtrazzal rather carelessly tossed you in here before I could catch the answer."

"You play the fool well, male," Viconia replied, standing up stiffly. "Or perhaps you are not playing?

"You hurt my feelings, Viconia," Alorgoth smirked. "Oh yes, I know who you are, you and Rasaad both. Meddlers trying to play a game you have no hope of winning."

Rasaad's eyes shot open and with none of the usual sluggishness of the freshly awakened, he launched himself at Alorgoth, only to find himself trapped in the dragon's talons once more.

"Damn you Alorgoth-"

"Hah! You would damn me, you who so eagerly damned himself? The game ends here."

"A game, Alorgoth?" Coran sat up in his bedroll. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Yes of course," the Doombringer smiled. "A grand game of light and darkness and the murky space between both. A game you've come to know well, eh, Rasaad?"

Rasaad stopped struggling and glared defiantly. He had almost suffered death by dragon once before; a green one in the service of Cyric encountered on the road to Dragonspear. Its skin was now being worn by Keldorn Firecam, but this one seemed in far less danger of becoming somebody's suit.

"I am glad you're here Rasaad," Alorgoth whispered, stroking a finger along his jaw. "You weren't my target, of course, but it amuses me to know that you bear witness to the scope of your utter failure. The Twofold Heresy was just too attractive to resist, wasn't it, Rasaad? One whiff of the trust and you willingly forsook your precious Sun Soul philosophy."

"Joining the Trust was a ruse to get to you, nothing more! And what do you mean I wasn't your target?" the monk seethed. "You sent Gamaz's corpse to torment me, knowing that I would come!"

"And that you would bring Viconia with you." Alorgoth's face burned with fanatical triumph, even as the enormity of Rasaad's mistake started to dawn on him. "Though I cannot take all the credit. Using your brother's reanimated body to push you over the edge was Arowan's idea. What a sneaky, venomous basilisk that creature is. She will make a worthy Adversary once I take my rightful place as Shar's Chosen One!"

The mention of Arowan's name drove Viconia almost to madness. It wasn't that she hadn't been terrified before, she had, but even falling into the hands of Lolth or Alorgoth was less appalling to her than the knowledge that her hated enemy had won. She hurled her dagger at Alorgoth and, catching him by surprise, succeeded in gashing his cheek.

The dagger fell with a clatter, along with flecks of his blood. He picked it up, with a poisonous expression, unable to use his own healing magics underground.

"You know, my deal with the other faiths was that I would leave you and your followers unharmed down here, guarded by my beloved Yxtrazzal," he purred, putting his palm to his face and staring at his own blood coating his fingertips. "They feared I might fail against the Adversary and they wanted to keep you around just in case. But I don't think that's necessary, do you?"

"I will die before I let you touch her!" Rasaad exclaimed, somewhat impotently since he was still locked in the dragon's iron grip. "Release me you coward and let my brother's death be avenged!"

"Would his death be avenged while his killer still lives?" asked Alorgoth in amusement. "Because that wasn't me. Remind me, who was it struck the killing blow?"

"I had no choice! You destroyed my brother with your numbing potions!"

"And what of the young lady who you battered your own brother to death to rescue?" Alorgoth went on slyly. "She left his body there, didn't even _try_ to revive him. Oh yes, I have my spies in Baldur's Gate. I know what happened at poor Eric's trial. Perhaps your brother might have been cured of his addiction if you had known about it, but you didn't because she kept it from you. Is she not his murderer as much as you or I?"

Something shifted in Rasaad's expression. His rage hadn't gone, not at all, yet its focus had shifted imperceptibly. In his heart, even when they were together, Rasaad had never forgiven Arowan for not trying to save Gamaz. He stopped struggling and panted in Yxtrazzal's grip like a furious bull, much to his enemy's amusement.

"Of course, in Arowan's defence, she did try to redeem herself," Alorgoth said, fairly. "After all, she revived your beloved brother for you in the end."

Unable respond to physically, Rasaad screamed like a man on the rack. His cry sounded almost inhuman as he was confronted with the enormity of his mistake. It had been Arowan, and not the Sharran, who had mutilated his brother's body into an undead foot soldier. All to deceive him into bringing Viconia to her end. She had used them all as her pawns, Alorgoth included. Now Arowan was poised on the brink of victory and there was nothing he could do.

* * *

* * *

Rasaad's call reverberated through the tunnels and to the ears of the devout council. With the exception of the Ilmatari, who led the way despite being unarmed, they raised their respective weapons and ran in the direction of the sound.

It brought them face to snout with Yxtrazzal.

"Helm help us!" Prelate Wessalen breathed.

"Not down here," replied the Ilmatari calmly.

As the others rushed past him and began to chop, slice and stab at their vastly superior foe, he stepped under her tail into the cave. He was moments away from being squashed flat, for the drow handmaiden's cruel little short sword found one of Yxtrazzal's eyes. The creature flailed her tail in agony and dropped Rasaad.

"What are you doing?" hissed Alorgoth.

"The gods demand that the Servant of all Faiths be released from this place," the Ilmatari responded gently. "We have come to free her."

"Your gods! Not Shar!"

"Shar cannot speak to you here. You did not share your plan with her beforehand, did you, Doombringer?"

Perhaps for the first time in his adult life, Alorgoth's face betrayed a flicker of doubt. He had not, in his prayers, kept Shar in the loop. He was being tested, after all, to judge his fitness to replace Viconia. With her gone, Shar would have no choice but to elect him as her Chosen One instead. So certain had he been of his destiny that it was only now occurring to him that his goddess might not welcome such coercion from a mortal.

"Shar is not bound by the barriers that limit your petty gods!" he cried, but there was a hint of panic creeping into his voice. "If she wished me to stop she could tell me as much, crystals or no crystals!"

He was forced to break off his praise of Shar for Rasaad was now sparring him. The monk had slept poorly on rough ground and the dragon's tight grip had bruised his muscles sorely, yet he had the advantage of youth.

"Why does Shar not aid you now then?" reasoned the Ilmatari. "Your powers cannot serve you here, any more than mine can!"

There was a deafening roar from outside followed by a wave of choking, blinding dust. Yxtrazzal had struck the wall of the passageway, blocking it off in one direction and crushing both the dwarven cleric and the Handmaiden of Lolth.

"Servant of all Faiths, you must flee," instructed the Ilmatari. "Once you are clear of the crystals the gods will protect you."

Leaving most of their belongings behind them, Jaheira and Coran were already at the cave entrance, pressing their clothes over their noses against the lung-stinging dust. Hooded figures lay dead around the dragon, the victims of her vicious teeth and claws. The deaths of his fellows left Wessalen to face her alone. As a paladin he was no stranger to powerful evil but this was too much for him. Only a sudden eruption of Jaheira's vines from all directions entangled the dragon and spared him from joining his co-conspirators.

Yxtrazzal began to rip the vines from the walls of the mine one by one, destabilising it still further. Rubble and dust began to rain on the party, and the walls started to shake, but Rasaad and Alorgoth fought on undeterred.

"Come on!" screamed Coran. "We have to get out of here!"

"You go!" Rasaad bellowed. "I must finish what I started!"

The Ilmatari latched onto Viconia's arm and tried to lead her to safety, but she remained transfixed watching with horror as Rasaad and Alorgoth fought on beside the dragon's thrashing bulk.

"Servant of all Faiths, we cannot hold this beast off forever!" the Ilmatari implored. "We passed your friend Sarevok on the way down here, he awaits you sword in hand. The gods will grant him the strength to defend you, even from the shadow dragon but as long as you are here they can do nothing!"

"We have to leave wretched, idiot male!" Viconia hounded Rasaad. "The roof is caving in!"

"Let it!" the monk snarled. "Alorgoth and I will both be buried here!"

He showed no sign of abandoning his fight, but the tremors were growing more violent by the second. Jaheira placed her hand on Viconia's arm, almost sympathetically.

"We cannot stay here, Viconia," she said.

Coran looked back and forth helplessly between the cave, the exit and the dragon. With his bow destroyed he was no help at all, unless…

Watching Wessalen desperately hold back Yxtrazzal's talons with the blade of his sword while her mouth opened wide, he remembered the strategy Freya had used against the green dragon. Dancing and weaving near its armoured body, too close for it to get a good bite, wearing down the scales on its neck.

"Oh, fuck me!" he moaned, drawing his short sword.

Well, everyone had to go sometime. Hadn't he always said an adventurer of his calibre ought to die gloriously? Hadn't he always chosen the example of a dragon? It beat hanging from his own four poster.

Coran hurtled past Wessalen and sliced against the grain of Yxtrazzal's neck scales like he was giving her a shave. The dragon shrieked and slammed her head against the roof, unable to bear the pain from her dripping eye. Her wings flapped, creating a wind tunnel which hurled him and the paladin back down the corridor.

"Are you a stark raving lunatic Coran?" screamed Jaheira.

She hauled on Viconia's arm again but the drow's feet seemed glued to the floor. Tears were streaming from her red eyes which were fixed on Rasaad.

"Rasaad, she won't leave with out you. You cannot defeat Alorgoth in time, give it up or we all die!"

"No, never! Leave this place now, before it's too late!"

The walls shuddered again and crystals slid down the side of the cave in a sudden cascade of violet. Just in time, the Ilmatari gave Viconia a hefty shove, knocking her from her feet. He saved her from being buried alive with him, but not from being struck hard on the head.

Jaheira cursed and pulled the dazed and stumbling drow, but a second rockfall descended and crushed Viconia's torso. The drow was flattened against the cave floor. A trickle of blood ran from her mouth. She wasn't moving.

Fear hit Rasaad like a cold wave, putting out the fire that had been driving him to Alorgoth. He watched as Jaheira cast a healing spell but she was not strong enough to move the rock. Coran and Wessalen were preoccupied distracting the dragon. The Ilmatari's hand poked out from the first rockfall, but there was no way a human without protective spells could have survived.

Viconia couldn't be completely dead because her eyelids were flickering but with so much weight pressing on her chest she also couldn't be breathing.

Finally, Rasaad broke away from Alorgoth, who dived for shelter behind the shadow dragon. The monk wrenched the ice-cold crystals from Viconia enough to drag her free, and lifted her in his arms.

He ran past Wessalen and Coran, carrying her limp body. Her long silver hair fell over her face like a shroud, and he prayed with all his being that he was not too late, though no goddess could hear him down here.

"What about the others?" shouted Wessalen.

"Dead! They're all dead!" screamed Jaheira. "You and Coran go! Now!"

"I won't leave you!" cried the paladin, his honour outraged.

"I'll be fine so long as you do as I say!" she commanded. "Move!"

For a moment it looked like Wessalen might ignore her, but Coran turned to go, saying with an exhausted grin; "Best to let her get on with it. You'll only get in her way." As he hot footed it past her with the paladin in tow, the elf could have sworn he saw her smile.

Jaheira seized her staff in both hands and slammed it into the ground between herself and Yxtrazzal. The dragon lunged forward, jaws wide, but the druid's roots twisted around the tunnel and wrenched.

She turned and ran, stumbling as the walls shook violently, but still managing to overtake the others who heard the roar from behind her and upped their speed. Pulled inward by the vines, the mine was collapsing behind them.

They rounded a bend and saw Sarevok in the distance, waiting with his sword drawn. There, in the torchlight they would once more find the sanctuary of the gods.

Alorgoth's pleas to Shar went unheard by his goddess as the rocks fell, but Yxtrazzal had strength in her reptilian body yet. She wrapped the Doombringer protectively beneath her tattered wings and bashed a pathway through the blocked tunnel that led deeper into the mountain. It took him a long time to escape from the crystal mines and even longer to regain his goddess's favour. Alorgoth had survived, but it would be decades before he posed his enemies any further threat.

"Is she dead?" Sarevok asked urgently.

Rasaad skidded to a halt, for though the mine was collapsing behind them, the wreckage ended at exactly the point where the purple crystals ran out. He laid Viconia down gently, praying for her life, but feeling her turn cold.

"Selune, please no!" he panted. "This is all my fault."

"Not _all_ your fault," Wessalen confessed, wiping his brow.

Jaheira shooed them aside. Regardless of who had made the mess, hers was the task of fixing it. As she cast her healing spells she felt power flow through her as never before. Her hands and Viconia's entire body shimmered with divine light. The drow took a deep, shuddering breath and several of the watching party shed tears of relief.

"I must go at once," said Wessalen, rising to his feet.

"Oh no you don't!" snapped Jaheira. Her wig looked unnaturally clean and undamaged, charmed as it was by protective magic. The rest of her was dusty and bruised and her clothes were torn. "Where did you come from? What happened here?"

Prelate Wessalen sighed and removed his helmet. He looked old and very small for a warrior of quite sizable bulk.

"We all heard Amauna's prophecy about the Adversary. When we learned the identity of the Servant of all Faiths, I confess that we panicked. We could not see how one exiled drow could take on all the power of Bhaal," he told them. "Alorgoth has the tongue of a serpent. He convinced us, even those of us who ought to have known better, that he would be a better candidate. We came to the conclusion that between the Order, the Dark Moon and House Do'Urden we would have the power to destroy the Adversary."

"If you were allied with Alorgoth then you will die with him, dog!" cried Rasaad.

"Wait!" thundered Jaheira, blocking his way with her staff. "What do you mean, all the power of Bhaal? Arowan is but one Bhaalspawn!"

"We have reason to suppose that the last living Bhaalspawn will gain Bhaal's undiluted powers. It is possible that they might even ascend in their own right if they wished it," the paladin replied. "But Arowan will not choose this path. She will take Bhaal's essence and detonate it, destroying all evil people at once, just as the prophetess Amauna almost did with Amaunator."

"How…?" Viconia croaked from the floor. Forgetting Wessalen, Rasaad rushed to support her on his lap. She groaned blearily and Sarevok had the presence of mind to offer her some water. "How would Arowan even know how to do such a thing?" she managed between sips.

"We think she had the Blackguard Dorn Il-Khan visit Amaunator's temple in the Umar Hills months ago," the Prelate replied. "Amauna's bones were destroyed. Everyone assumed that the shadow dragon haunting the ruins did it, but we suspect that Arowan ordered the attack to stop the prophecies. We found the bodies of some of the archaeologists. They had marks of torture upon them. Marks that were not made by any dragon."

"Dorn left the party on 'urgent business' on our way to face Irenicus," Sarevok recalled. "On reflection, we should have asked more questions about that. I merely assumed that his patron had sent him to murder some priggish knight or other."

"Then these experts will have told her the details of how Amauna attempted the ritual, before the original Servant of all Faiths prevented her?" Viconia coughed.

"Almost certainly."

Viconia stood up. Her legs trembled weakly below her and she looked like she might fall any second. Rasaad moved to support her but when he offered her his arm, she scratched it hard with a hateful expression.

"Then as soon as the last Bhaalspawn dies, she is ready to begin?"

"The ritual is time consuming. It will take three days from start to finish, and she can only begin once she has all of his essence," Wessalen explained. "During that time she will become indestructible, except to you."

Viconia tangled her fingers in her hair, hiding her face, and shaking with uncontrollable panic. At the Twofold Temple she had been paralyzed by god-terror when Bhaal's avatar had appeared at a mere fraction of his true power.

"How am I supposed to defeat the might of a god?" she howled.

"With the aid of all other gods," said Wessalen encouragingly. He turned to Rasaad. "Kill me if you judge it right. I will not raise arms to defend myself, for I know that I have done wrong. But if you allow me time to redeem myself I may yet be of some use to you. Join with the forces of the Order, let our paladins and clerics clear a path to Arowan through her undead minions."

The drow knew well enough that Anomen would see to it that this was done without any instruction from the Prelate. It was more for the sake of provoking Rasaad that she chose to let the paladin leave unharmed. He hurried away and they followed him out of the mines. Its dwarf residents were keeping a very low profile. They had known nothing of the plan save for their own instructions, but whatever it was something had clearly gone wrong. The monk was not about to waste his time on lackeys, however. Alorgoth might have been stopped but the Doombringer was right about one thing. There was no justice for Gamaz while Arowan drew breath.

Sarevok's mind, however, was no longer on Arowan nor Viconia nor on rituals and wars. For the Prelate had revealed a possibility that he had believed beyond his reach since the day Freya slew him in their father's temple. He had almost reconciled himself to merging with the others, but now it seemed that this fate was not inevitable after all. Wessalen had said that Bhaal's powers would go to the last Bhaalspawn standing. As far as he was concerned, that Bhaalspawn did not _necessarily_ have to be Arowan.


	28. Sendai

“Now what?” Coran asked.

Sarevok eyed him sideways. If he was to attempt to claim ascension for himself again, he could not count on the elf to support him. They may have gone from enemies to allies but he could not picture Coran ever agreeing to help him ascend at Bhaal’s expense. The thief had a complex and deep-rooted relationship with this dead god.

The party had rapidly put a good distance between themselves and the mountain before pausing to take stock. Jaheira was enjoying the feel of the sun on her face and the whisper of leaves above her head.

“Now I suppose we make camp and wait for the Order’s scouts to find us,” Rasaad shrugged. “Though I do not see why we did not wait for them at Deepstone.”

His companions shuffled their feet uneasily, scuffing the dirt path beneath them. The truth was that they couldn’t trust him not to lose his temper again and start beating the dwarven inhabitants to death indiscriminately, but nobody felt like saying so.

Being of a practical mindset, Jaheira set about taking an inventory of what they had left. They had lost a great deal in the collapse of the mine, including everyone’s tent except Sarevok’s. No doubt the Order had some they could lend, but unless they reached them by sunset they were in for an uncomfortable night. To her mild disappointment, Coran still possessed the Girdle of Femininity with which to summon Bhaal.

“I had to grab it,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I managed to get Rasaad’s pack at the same time, but there wasn’t time to collect them all.”

“Do not concern yourself. You cured me of vampirism, I will not begrudge the loss of my possessions. I had not had time to restock my herbs since turning back in any case.”

Coran sat on the grass eating his portion of breakfast, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say supper since night was almost upon them. Time was always tricky to gauge underground. He was unusual for an adventurer and an elf in that road fare did not agree with him. The gods had made him for a hedonistic lifestyle of stodgy pub lunches and the occasional glamourous banquet. Most elves who lived on human food tended to fill out more than one was used to seeing with their kind, and Coran was no exception. He sported the unmistakable beginnings of a double chin.

Surprisingly, considering her ordeal, Viconia was in a better mood. Lolth had not spoken to her since the incident in the caves, which seemed to have startled the malevolent goddess out of tormenting her too heavily. At least for now. Indeed, for most of the party a rest with some stew and stale bread was very welcome and they were not anxious for the Order to locate them too quickly. With one exception, that its.

“I do not like waiting around like this!” the monk burst out suddenly. “We are idle while Arowan lives and still I have no justice for my brother’s death!”

“Cease your bellyaching!” Sarevok replied darkly. “It is getting on my nerves. You are not the only one with loses to avenge and a score to settle. What you call justice, I call revenge, and we shall have it soon enough.”

“Forgive me,” replied Rasaad, taking a deep breath. “You too have suffered loss. The destruction wrought by the armies of Yaga-Shura and Arowan are beyond comprehension.”

“They were harbouring Bhaalspawn. One way or another, they were going to die,” Sarevok replied stoically.

“Not all of them,” insisted Rasaad. “And even of the Bhaalspawn themselves, if you are any example not all of them willingly embrace their evil heritage. I have been taught to seek the light in all things, but it is hard to find anything positive in such a tragedy.”

Sarevok felt a twinge of something awkward and uncomfortable. He was not accustomed to nursing a guilty conscience and yet he felt very glad that his ally (he still could not quite bring himself to call the monk a friend) was unable to see his innermost thoughts. Whether or not to claim his evil heritage was consuming him even as they spoke. It seemed, however, that he was not alone in harbouring dark thoughts.

“I think of Saradush, Arowan and my brother and I wonder,” Rasaad said quietly. He pulled out the cloak, boots and circlet he had taken from Alorgoth’s room. “Could it be that Shar’s doctrine holds some sliver of truth? Is everything ultimately doomed to ruin? What was once a certainty, is certainty no longer.”

“Is this what you’ve come to Rasaad?” Jaheira sneered. “Shar’s teachings are now worthy of consideration?”

Viconia pursed her lips but said nothing.

“I am no longer the ignorant boy who accepted everything he was told at face value!” Rasaad snapped. He took a deep breath to calm his temper. “Excuse me. I need some time to… to think.”

Viconia ignored him as he strode into the wood to meditate, but prodded the fire bad-temperedly with a stick. The logs glowed and spat pretty embers. She scowled at them and smacked them like ants, extinguishing their little lights one by one.

“I admire your restraint Viconia,” Jaheira said casually. “There was a time you would have latched onto Rasaad’s doubt like a hungry alligator, dragging him with you into the murk of Shar.”

“There was a time I too saw the world only in dark and light, and I was sure which side I was on,” the drow replied. She thought of the Ilmatari cleric. He had seemed awfully sure of himself for a weak man, even as he sacrificed his life to save her own. “Now there are only shades of grey.”

To her fury, Jaheira burst out laughing, leaning on her staff as she doubled over.

“What is so entertaining, mongrel?” Viconia snapped.

“Sounds to me like we have two more recruits for the Twofold Trust!” the druid chortled. “Brother Hammerhelm will have you and Rasaad tending his ‘herb garden’ and weaving flowers into each other’s hair in no time!”

“Shut up half-breed!” Viconia replied waspishly.

* * *

* * *

“Amelyssan lied, it isn’t here!” Dorn grunted.

The moon shone above them, bright and empty, though the trees cast long shadows. There was an eerie creaking coming from the branches above them, and he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched.

“Yes it is. This is the place,” Arowan smiled. She was kneeling on the ground beside two old graves rubbing a piece of lichen between finger and thumb. “Sendai may have hidden the entrance to her lair but there are traces of drow all over the place.”

Rough barked trees looming out of a thick carpet of ferns. Insects chirruping, the snap of twigs beneath his boot and the scent of pine needles everywhere. As far as Dorn could tell this was a forest like any other.

“Show me,” he said.

Arowan took a few steps back down the path and scooped up a pile of dirt. Dirt in a forest was nothing unusual, but as she sprinkled it, it caught the light in an oddly metallic way.

“Adamantine,” she said. “Favoured metal for drow weapons and armour. Very strong but doesn’t do so well in daylight. Somebody didn’t make it back underground in time. They’ve tried to hide their footprints but they’ve missed a couple and there are more webs than I’d expect from woods so close to civilization.”

She followed the trail a short distance up the path and then cast Dispel against a random patch of ground. Before their eyes an entrance materialized. Arowan whistled, and rank upon rank of zombies who had been holding back so as not to damage the ground began their remorseless march. She let a few dozen go ahead to set off any traps before descending into the enclave herself.

“I was expecting the entrance to be better guarded,” remarked Dorn.

“Why waste door guards against an entire army?” Arowan shrugged. “I’m sure that this Sendai knows we’re here but she prefers to meet us on her own turf.”

There was a distant snap and a sizzle that told her she was down a few zombies and Sendai was down one trap.

“Shouldn’t we reseal the entrance?” asked Dorn, “In case Anomen decides to strike from behind?”

“Pointless. Jaheira’s an even better tracker than I am. You think she’ll miss the tracks of hundreds of lumbering zombies vanishing at this exact spot?”

“Jaheira is dead,” Dorn reminded her.

“No she isn’t. I saw her from the battlements of Saradush. She’s alive and well and helping Viconia.”

Dorn goggled at her. He had put his share of villages to the torch, stolen, plundered and was not even above the occasional use of torture. Yet sometimes Arowan’s callousness left even him lost for words. His nostrils flared and he found himself grinding his back teeth.

“Let me understand this correctly. The agony you felt upon losing your adopted mother caused you to unleash an avatar of Bhaal, murder a street full of innocent people and drove you to attempt suicide. Her death sparked the chain of events that led us to where we are, on a path that may very likely lead to the end of the world as we know it. After the battle of Saradush this same woman turns up ‘alive and well’ and you are only mentioning this to me _now_?”

Arowan looked at him with glassy, numb eyes.

“I’m sorry Dorn,” she said vacantly. “I did not conceal this from you intentionally, I just didn’t think it was important.”

In the gloom of Sendai’s enclave, Dorn Il-Khan actually winced.

* * *

* * *

Elsewhere in the enclave, Sendai herself was perched on a rather uncomfortable looking throne. It was black, metallic and seemed unnecessarily spikey. A human monk stood before her, shaven headed and proud. He looked peculiarly out of place amongst the silver-haired drow, the tallest of whom was a full head shorter.

“Your answer will not sit well with my master, Sendai,” he said wearily.

“You dare threaten me here, in my own enclave?” the drow bristled.

“Balthazaar’s army grows stronger with each passing day!” the monk cried in exasperation. “Two of the five are already dead. Gorion’s Ward is roaming around with ever expanding legions of undead. Two of the Bhaalspawn are allied dragons and there are even rumours that the Hero of Saradush escaped with his life. Sendai, I implore you to consider my master’s offer. You know how this will end!”

Sendai raked her long nails over the arms of the throne. It made a sound like scratching a blackboard, undoubtedly by design. Her drow followers cringed away but the monk stood his ground.

“I will not give up my Bhaal essence. Your ‘master’ can shove his ritual up his pious little arse!”

“That ritual is your only chance of survival!” the monk insisted.

For a split second a flicker of doubt crossed Sendai’s face. The odds were not in her favour and she knew it. Balthazaar, Gorion’s Ward and the dragons all possessed armies which far outmatched her own. Sarevok Anchev had none as far as she knew, but were he ever to catch her alone…

“Perhaps you should consider mistress?” a male raised his hand timidly.

“No,” she replied decisively. “Flee now if you like but know that it is too late. For all of you!” she added, glaring around at her followers. “We turned our backs on Lolth in favour of the power of Bhaal. She does not forget, she does not forgive. Face the wrath of the Bhaalspawn with me and you may yet achieve victory and power beyond your dreams. Abandon me and you will face the wrath of the Spider Queen.”

Sendai’s followers sank to their knees in unison. She was right, of course. There was no turning back now.

“So be it,” replied the monk. “You reject my master’s offer and tainted you shall remain. Your fate is sealed Sendai. You and all your lineage.”

He began to teleport away. Sendai toyed with the idea of catching him and having him tortured to death, but she restrained herself. Perhaps, if she refrained from provoking Balthazaar, he would go after one of the others first. Then, at least, she would have one less enemy to fight.

His teleportation left a brief glow of blue energy behind. Her captain of the guard ran through it, breathless and with his helmet slightly askew.

“My queen we are under assault- from Gorion’s Ward!”

Sendai screwed her eyes closed and took a deep, shaky breath.

“So be it.”

* * *

* * *

“Forward slaves! Destroy the intruder or our mistress will flay the skin from our backs until we beg for death!”

“That sounds… oddly specific.”

Sendai’s head slave looked around for the source of the voice but all he could see were row upon row of clammy, mindless zombies stretching back down the tunnel. Something dripped onto his forehead. He looked up and screamed.

Scuttling upside down on the cavern roof was a vast spider, but where its head ought to be was the head and torso of a man. His ruby eyes bulged madly down at him and his gaping mouth was drooling. It was this which had dripped on his head.

It took him a moment to even notice the rider, though once he did it was clear that it was she and not the spider creature who had spoken. She was holding onto the monster’s waist with arms and legs, her wavy brown hair tumbling down. Unarmed and with a common ranger’s outfit, she looked peculiarly normal to be leading such an army.

Despite wearing a Charisma Ring, there was a slight looseness to her skin that suggested someone who had lost a lot of weight in a short space of time. It was particularly noticeable when she was upside down. The head slave knew. He saw people like that all the time.

After a while his scream died out, though only because he had run out of breath. Arowan gave him what passed for her friendly smile these days and, to his abject horror, the spider scuttled down the side of the wall bringing him face to face with the join line between drow and spider. It looked stretched and painful.

“…and hello to you,” she said pleasantly. “My name is Arowan. I’m looking for a Bhaalspawn named Sendai. Have you seen her?”

“At the end of the tunnel through the gilded doors! Here’s the key!” the slave squeaked, practically throwing it at her. It bounced off Valas’ carapace and fell to the floor with a tinkle.

“Dorn, be a dear,” Arowan said idly.

A grinning half-orc burst from between the lines of zombies like a particularly nasty wasp crawling from a picnic basket. He scooped up the keys in his large fingers and pocketed them.

“Please don’t hurt me! I’m just a slave!” the man prostrated himself at the drider’s feet.

“Oh, do get up. Grovelling is so tiresome,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “What a shame we don’t have Anomen around to detect evil anymore. Still, you seem relatively harmless.”

“ _Very_ harmless!” agreed the slave, nodding emphatically.

“Very well. Go away and take your fellows with you,” she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “You’ll have to push past the zombies I’m afraid, but don’t worry. They won’t hurt you. I must apologise for the smell.”

The slave blinked. He stood uncertainly. He looked from the half-orc, to the drider, to its creepy smiling rider. His fellow slaves had begun to inch forward and were gathering hopefully around him.

“You… you’re setting us _free?_ ” he asked, bewildered. “Why?”

“Why not?” Arowan asked vaguely.

“’Ere!” a slightly underfed but muscular slave was elbowing his way to the front. He had a strong Baldur’s Gate accent. “I recognize you! You’re Freya’s sister!”

The corner of Arowan’s eye twitched a little. Somewhere, buried deep in what remained of her personality, was the tiny piece of her that had always resented lurking in the golden Hero’s shadow.

“You’re from Baldur’s Gate?” she asked testily.

“Yeah! Our trading caravan was captured near Saradush. Yaga-Shura sold us along with our goods and we ended up in this hell-pit. I remember you, you looked after our Amy when she came down with the dysentery. At the Chapel of Ilmater.”

While Dorn made impatient noises, Arowan scanned her memory for an Amy but she could not pin a name to the face. Then again, there had been so, so many. The memory stirred up a faint flurry of residual anxiety, like poking the bottom of a pond with a stick and disturbing the sediment. She took a quick sip of numbing potion.

“How is Amy these days?” she asked vaguely.

“Still dead?” the slave raised an eyebrow. Then he looked at the zombies and laughed nervously. “At least as far as I know.”

“Apologies. It was a… difficult time,” she said in a distant voice. She drank another gulp of numbing potion, larger this time.

Dorn’s sword arm was starting to twitch impatiently and Arowan turned to leave. Before she did so, however, the slave pulled a grubby, hairy bundle from his tunic and handed it up to her. She unrolled it curiously. It was a fake beard. Somewhere, under the thick layers of sweat and grime, there lurked a hint of blue.

“Everything’s different in Baldur’s Gate since Lady Skie came back!” the slave called, though the zombies were surging forward at Dorn’s command and he and his fellows were pushing the other way. “We’re going to get the vote!”

Dorn Il-Khan did not care for votes. His version of democracy was one man-one vote and his vote was his sword. Already, he was leading the army through the slave tunnel and to the gilded door that led to Sendai, the zombies lurching after him.

High above them, seated on Valas while they swarmed around his spindly legs, Arowan stared at the blue beard. It had been the symbol of the fledgling rebellion in Baldur’s Gate, of which she had briefly been a part. Skie had detested them, but it was not this change of allegiance that was so strange. After all, the girl had shown all the signs of being a political snake about to hatch. Arowan had no difficulty in believing that Skie might start supporting the Blue Beards if it leant her some advantage.

No. What was strange was that Skie’s return ought to be impossible. Cautiously, taking great care not to touch its sharp edges, Arowan pulled the Soultaker Dagger from her pack and unwrapped it.

In the centre of its hilt was a dark, evil gem where all the souls it had taken resided. Arowan’s eyes narrowed as she peered into it. One could get lost staring into the gem. It felt as if you could be sucked right into its depths if you peered at it for too long.

Flashes of faces… palms of hands… a _honeybee_ for some reason…

There! A lone dancer, performing her endless ballet to a non-existent audience. The soul of Skie Silvershield, not returned to Baldur’s Gate as the man had said, but still trapped in the dagger where Irenicus had left her. Delicately, she packed the artefact away again.

“Interesting,” she whispered, scratching at the three-lined scar on her cheek. “I wonder…”

* * *

* * *

Dorn was having a marvellous time. Sendai’s minions succeeded in destroying a great many zombies but this hardly mattered for once they were slaughtered Arowan would raise them to join her ranks themselves. Meanwhile their souls descended into hell to feed his patron Ur-Gothoz’s own army. Rancor practically hummed in his hand.

The door to the final chamber swung open and he strode in confidently. A lone drow, smaller even than Arowan, was sitting on a throne waiting for him.

“My army has been slaughtered, falling helplessly before your might,” she said. “You would have made a great ally to our cause. Alas, the time for such possibilities is past. But the lives of my servants and slaves have not been spent in vain. They have bought me time to prepare a special surprise for you. Prepare to meet your end, Bhaalspawn!”

Dorn grinned, baring yellowish tusks.

“I am no Bhaalspawn.”

A surge of lightning crackled over the roof of the chamber and instead of one Sendai, seven surrounded him. Dorn chortled and let the zombies in. Her spells felled them easily, but more and more kept coming. They plodded around the edges of the room, cutting the copies of Sendai off from one another, filling all of the available space. As each stumbled beneath her clones’ arrows and spells, more came in an endless procession to take their place.

The real Sendai could only gawp in horror as they formed a wall of bodies around her duplicates piling higher and higher, eventually climbing over the top and forming a mound over each one. Some of them fought on. There were occasional flashes of light coming from under the mounds of zombies. Yet gradually her copies were being crushed and suffocated to death.

“Now that that’s taken care of,” chuckled Dorn.

He swung Rancor in a great arch, where it collided with Sendai’s hastily cast protective spell. The half-orc laughed cruelly and hacked again and again, his sword bouncing off the ever-weakening charm like a deranged child on a bouncy castle. The drow’s terror mounted until finally she could no longer hold enough focus to maintain her defence and Dorn’s blade cut deep into her side.

By the time Arowan arrived, it was already over. Her fellow Bhaalspawn lay fatally injured in a pool of her own syrupy blood.

“Damn you!” Sendai croaked. The fallen ranger raised an indifferent eyebrow. “Still, I may yet rob you of the glory of your victory. Know this: even as I die, the return of our father is inevitable. Though I fall, others will ensure Bhaal is reborn!”

Arowan knelt by her side, as she had once knelt by the side of the dying in the Chapel of Ilmater. She pulled a length of cloth from her pack. This time, however, she was not trying to save anyone. Rather than using it to mop Sendai’s brow, she placed it tightly over the Bhaalspawn’s nose and mouth.

“No sister,” the ranger said softly. “Bhaal will not be coming back.”

After a while, Sendai’s body stopped twitching, and Arowan found herself kneeling in a pool of spilled blood and golden dust.

* * *

* * *

“I heard the clamour of hooves approaching,” Rasaad said, stepping out from between two trees. “I am here.”

They stared. The monk had shaved his head once more but despite his return to baldness he looked a different man. He was dressed in Alorgoth’s artefacts. The shadowy cloak swept menacingly behind him, and those dark boots masked the sound of his footfall utterly concealing his approach. Upon his head, bisecting the tattooed marks of Selune sat the headband.

He moved to join them, as though nothing had changed, calmly scooping up his pack and throwing it over his shoulder. The addition of an ordinary, battered adventuring pack took some of the intimidating out of his ensemble, but not much.

“Erm… did I miss something?” Anomen asked.

The knight dismounted as did Keldorn and Wessalen. The Prelate was looking rather old and miserable, as though he no longer belonged in the company of his fellow knights. He had, Viconia noticed, subtly replaced Helm’s symbol with Ilmater’s on the clasp of his cloak.

He was not the only one who appeared to have undergone a conversion. Viconia had been trying to lure Rasaad into the shadows from the earliest moments of their acquaintance. Yet she found his new look strangely disconcerting. To see the monk sporting the black cloak, headband and boots of Alorgoth made him seem more imposing, somehow, than he had been before.

“The brightest light casts the darkest shadow,” Rasaad said wisely.

Anomen couldn’t help it. His lip twitched beneath his beard, and then he made the mistake of catching Jaheira’s eye. It was a private joke between the two of them, for Keldorn, Coran and Sarevok had never encountered the Twofold Trust, but knight and druid both started to chuckle.

“Well, joy to you on your new path sir,” Anomen grinned. “Although you will have to take up your costume with Brother Hammerhelm if you are to join the Twofold Trust. He seemed quite keen on the white flowing flower dress… I mean robes… and do try not to overdo it on ‘herbs.’”

Rasaad was not amused. He strode over to Anomen, leaned forward and spoke very quietly so that only he could hear.

“I know that it was you who fed numbing potions to Arowan. For now, stopping her is the only priority but you and I shall have words later…”

There was a definite threat in Rasaad’s tone, and despite knowing he was in the wrong Anomen’s natural temper might still have gotten the better of him, were it not for the unexpected arrival of another monk.

He was from neither the Dark Moon nor the Sun Soul Order, but introduced himself as Master Bennon. Barely acknowledging the others, he strode barefoot to Sarevok and addressed him directly.

“Sarevok Anchev?”

“Who wishes to know?” growled the demi-god. He suspected an assassin but he was surrounded by allies and besides, there was little point in denying it. The glowing eyes really had been a _bad_ idea.

“I come as an emissary on behalf of my master, Balthazaar,” Master Bennon replied with a courteous bow. “He wishes to make you… an offer.”


	29. Amelyssan

"My Lords! The woman from Saradush has returned. Arowan's army has been sighted!"

A flurry of activity erupted at these words. _So soon?_ Viconia felt as though an electric bolt had passed through her very core and she was not the only one. Anomen was back on his horse before the messenger had even finished speaking, leaving Keldorn to hastily arrange horses for the rest of them.

"Whatever this Balthazaar wants it will have to wait," Sarevok muttered.

The monk nodded serenely and handed Sarevok a yellowing map. On it was circled a village but he did not bother to look at the name, screwing it up roughly into his pack. He had more pressing concerns than Balthazaar, they all did, and he paid the monk no further heed.

"Here! Coran!" Anomen called down to the thief. "Take this!"

He threw down Arowan's bow and the elf caught it in stunned hands.

The frantic movement and activity all around him shrank back to a blur and an incoherent murmur. All he could see clearly was the bow in his hands. Even as Rasaad half-threw him into the saddle of a dapple-grey horse, he could not stop staring at it.

~

_Arowan had sprinted ahead of him through the woods and by the time he was too tired to go any further, they had put enough distance between themselves and Baldur's Gate to safely make camp. "Alright, slow down!" he laughed. "I brought a spare bedroll but I've only got the one tent. Can we share? I won't try anything."_

_"Why? Because of Safana?" Arrow asked light-heartedly. The autumn leaves were swirling all around them and she was enjoying their musty smell and the crunch between her toes._

_Coran grinned. "I have something for you," he said, unhitching two longbows from his back. For the first time Arrow noticed that he had a spare. "I pinched it from the guard house while I was sniffing around." The ranger's eyes widened, then she laughed delightedly._

_It was Captain Corwin's bow. The thumping great thing she'd spent half her treasure on, that looked like it was built to take down dragons. Arrow was astonished that the thief didn't want to keep it for himself, but perhaps it would attract too much attention. She needn't worry about being spotted though. There were woods and meadows from here to the mountains, and she needn't even approach the roads save to cross them._

_The ranger wanted to try it out at once. Coran set up their tent and lit a small fire while Arrow went hunting. She returned empty-handed, and the elf suspected that she had been tearing through the woods for the sheer joy of it, rather than making any serious attempt to catch anything. Fortunately, he had some provisions, and her happiness at being set free had not dimmed in the slightest._

_"Where will you go?" he had asked her._

_~_

"Coran!"

The elf's head jerked up as Jaheira's voice cracked over him like a whip. She was riding a brown gelding, bareback. Only a druid or an expert rider could get away with such a feat. He knew enough to get his horse to turn left and right by pulling on the reigns and he was _reasonably_ confident that he could persuade the beast to stop if he needed to. Coran was not used to riding horses. It had never been an easy option with Freya around; the animals were terrified of the scent of wolf.

"This is Arowan's bow," he said shakily.

"Obviously," the druid replied witheringly but she pulled her horse alongside Coran's. "I do not want to do this either, but it must be done. At least we can ensure that it is quick and painless, which is better than she could expect were it solely up to Viconia."

"I… I need to warn Bhaal," Coran mumbled. Jaheira rolled her eyes but he said earnestly, "You remember what Yaga-Shura becoming part of his mind did to him! What effect do you think merging with Arowan is going to have on him?"

"Bhaal's wellbeing is of about as much interest to me as-"

"What about Arowan's?"

Jaheira fell mute. She was not at all sure where she stood with a Bhaal who was partly Arowan. It would change things though. That was certain.

"Fine. Warn him."

Careful to keep the Girdle of Femininity tucked in his satchel so that the paladins would not see what he was doing (they were far too preoccupied with preparing themselves for battle to care in any case) Coran discretely summoned Bhaal. An unpleasant, slimy tongue slurping his hand in greeting told him that it had worked.

TELL YOU WHAT; AROWAN IS A PIECE OF WORK THESE DAYS! YOU WON'T BELIEVE HOW ONE OF ME JUST DIED!

"Sendai. We know," Coran muttered out of the corner of his mouth while trying to keep his lips as still as possible. "Listen Bhaal, it's almost time. We're about to face Arowan.

AWESOME! JUST A FEW MORE TO GO AND I'M BACK BABY!

"No, it won't be awesome!" the elf pressed urgently. "Not after everything she's been through, everything she's done."

MOSTLY STUFF SHE'S DONE TO ME. I FORGIVE HER, OR WHATEVER. NOW BRING ON MY RESSURECTION!

Coran opened his mouth to argue but as he did so, a flame-haired woman rode boldly up to Sir Keldorn. Her nose was stuck slightly in the air and her blue eyes sparkled with malice. Rasaad reached out silently and grasped Sarevok's arm. The Bhaalspawn could not believe his eyes.

"You found Arowan for us again Melissan? How?" Keldorn demanded suspiciously.

HEY! IT'S AMELYSSAN!

Bhaal had poked his head out of one end of the satchel and his tail out of the other. To Coran's horror it was wagging delightedly. He tried to shove Bhaal's head back into the bag before any of the knights got a proper look at him, but Bhaal would not be shoved.

"Does it matter?" thundered Melissan impatiently to Keldorn. "Arowan attacked Sendai's enclave as I told you she would and now she is trapped there until nightfall. She was simple enough to find, it's not as though her murderous intentions are a secret…"

She trailed off into silence, for at that moment she caught sight of Sarevok.

Without a word, she turned her horse about and cracked the reigns into a gallop, kicking at it repeatedly with her boots. Sarevok was not yet mounted but Coran already had a bow in his hand. He shot at Amelyssan but she had powerful enough spells to deflect it, so that she might have got away entirely had Jaheira not had the presence of mind to say;

"The horse, Coran! Lame the horse!"

WHAT IN THE HELLS ARE YOU DOING? STOP SHOOTING AT MY HIGH PRIESTESS!

His second arrow pierced the animal's flank, which Amelyssan had not thought to protect independently. It whinnied in panic and threw its rider, tossing her sideways into the dirt.

Scratched and livid, Bhaal's priestess sprang to her feet. Coran reached for a third arrow, then screamed in pain. Bhaal had latched his jaws about his right fingers and no amount of shaking and flailing were making him let go.

"Why are you protecting her, you stupid rat?" Jaheira bristled, grasping Bhaal's jaws in both hands and trying to prise them open. This was difficult leaning from one horse to another, and the elf was in too much pain to hold still. "You were those Bhaalspawn in Saradush _and_ Sendai _and_ Yaga-Shura. You must have realised by now that she is trying to kill you!"

THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT SHE IS SUPPOSED TO BE DOING!

Bhaal did not, strictly speaking, need to move his mouth to talk. The spectral dog did not, after all, possess the right vocal cords and lips to form words. Or any lips at all for that matter. Nevertheless, possibly out of habit, he loosened his jaw as he spoke and Jaheira wrenched the sharp little teeth apart just far enough for Coran to pull his hand free.

"Come here, let me heal you," Jaheira rolled her eyes. "You should have left that Bhaal-Belt back in Alorgoth's tunnel."

"I shudder to think what Alorgoth would have done with the Girdle of Femininity," Coran moaned. He was reluctant to offer his hand for healing because that would put him back in chomping range of Bhaal.

Shooting another arrow was not possible until his hand was repaired. There was no need, however. Sarevok was bearing down on Amelyssan, his father's sword raised.

"You dare, you miserable little mollusc?" Amelyssan shrieked. "Come then, Bhaalspawn, you will find that I am more than a match for you!"

YOU CAN DO IT! KILL HIM AMELYSSAN!

Bhaal cheered her on from the sidelines, easily the most unattractive mascot in history. Sarevok shot him a nasty sideways glance. It was not the first time that Bhaal had been willing on his would-be killer. He knew that the god was anxious to accelerate his own rebirth but it was hard not to take it personally. Jaheira could see Bhaal doing the math in his tiny canine head. Sarevok down would leave only the dragons, Balthazaar and Arowan. His return was at hand.

It was fortunate that the Order knights were too distracted by the fight to notice the ugly talking dog, but Coran had no desire to push his luck. He held open his satchel to Jaheira who leaned over on her horse to shove Bhaal roughly into it. Coran pulled over the flap and hastily wrapped the Girdle of Femininity around it to keep him hidden. The satchel squirmed in protest.

Meanwhile the duel between priestess and Bhaalspawn was raging. A small handful of knights who had paused in their preparations to watch were not entirely sure whose side they ought to be on.

"Somebody cast detect evil!"

"I hate that spell," muttered Anomen, remembering the use that Arowan had put it to while he had been her captive.

It took the combined efforts of multiple paladins to break through Amelyssan's magical defences and cause her to glow red. Sarevok had no such magical barriers but was too blinded by rage to care. He felt their spells wash over him while he battered her energy shields and put up no resistance.

The result of their probing shook him.

Amelyssan was glowing like the setting sun, but the red sign of evil about his own aura was absent. The priestess took advantage of his confusion to send a barrage of magic missiles into his chest. Coran detected a muffled cheer from the satchel as Sarevok roared in pain.

Only his determination to destroy the woman who betrayed Saradush kept Sarevok's sword in his hand, but he was badly wounded. She gloated over him triumphantly.

With a gesture of her hand a dome of magical energy enveloped the pair of them, keeping Sarevok's allies at bay. Rasaad and the others could do nothing but watch the events in the dome unfold, unable to penetrate her shield.

"Do not feel too inadequate, Sarevok," she sneered. "How could a mere demi-god hope to stand against a living goddess?"

Coran's satchel stopped squirming abruptly.

"Slay me then, foolish woman," Sarevok grinned, almost madly. There was blood bubbling up from his throat, staining his teeth. "But don't expect your god to thank you. I will become part of Bhaal and I swear that once I am, I will crush you!"

Amelyssan laughed horribly. Her eyes were fixed on Sarevok and she did not notice that the paladins around her had seen which of them was evil and chosen a side. The Bhaalspawn did though, and he grasped his sword in readiness.

"It is you who is the fool, my poor dead god!" she leered. "Everything has happened as I wished it, and this shall be no different. All of Bhaal's essence shall be mine!"

"Yours?" Sarevok snarled.

The watching Order clerics acted in unison to dispel Amelyssan's shield and defensive spells. To Sarevok's horror, it didn't work.

"I harboured your father's wretched avatar when he walked as a mortal during the Time of Troubles. I would have claimed his power as Cyric tried to had it not been for that wretch Madele. How I relished hunting her down after Freya released her from the Cyricists!"

NO!

"The agonies she suffered as their guest were nothing to what I did to her," Amelyssan went on, "She ought to have known better than to stand in my way. You know, I do believe she actually cared for you, though why is beyond me."

"I have no idea who you are talking about," Sarevok spat.

"No… but you soon will _Bhaal_ … and I want you to know that it was I who claimed your glory while you languish wherever it is gods go to die," she told him, her eyes sparkling. With a surge of dark magic, Sarevok felt himself paralysed and unable to defend himself. She drew a blade and knelt down to whisper in his ear. "It was I who suggested the Bhaalspawn plan to your idiot father. He needed one priestess to perform the rites to give him back his essence once you were all dead. A task he entrusted to me. I will not return it to you, Bhaal. I will keep your essence for myself and become the Lady of Murder and you… you shall diminish into nothing."

CORAN. LET ME OUT OF THE BAG. NOW!

The elf looked to Jaheira who nodded and Coran unwound the girdle binding the bag. He dropped it very quickly. It was a painful distance for Bhaal from the height of a horse's back but his friend had no desire to be bitten a second time.

Bhaal struggled free of the satchel, undignified and yipping with rage. Coran wondered what he possibly meant to do against a woman single-handedly capable of defeating Sarevok while holding off their whole party and paladins.

Then he remembered that Amelyssan's power was drawn from the same source as Nyalee's had been. Her spells were a lingering gift from Bhaal, and as with Nyalee, the half-living god could take them away.

Amelyssan's shield flickered and died. The spell binding Sarevok lifted.

Before either had a chance to register what had happened, the Bhaalspawn found himself bombarded with the Order's healing spells, Aid and Protection from Evil. Lifted to his feet on a tidal wave of light energy, he grasped his father's sword in both hands, swung it at Amelyssan's neck and missed.

The sword lodged itself instead in her jaw, leaving it half hanging off but failing to kill her. She dropped to her knees, eyes bulging, unable even to scream. Bhaal watched, his fleshless expression unreadable, while his son wrenched the sword free and tried again.

This time he hit his target and severed her head from her neck. Amelyssan's body slumped in a fountain of blood but her head rolled away ignominiously down the path.

Two women could not have looked more different. Rounded Amelyssan with her flaming red hair, compared to a lithe Kara-Turan warrior. Even so, as Sarevok avenged the city of which he had briefly been the hero, he was reminded sharply of Tamoko's death.

MADELE…

"Sorry mate," Coran murmured, dropping down from his horse and scooping Bhaal back into the satchel.

IT'S MY FAULT. I LET HER GO BLIND AND DEFENCELESS. I DIDN'T THINK.

"You never do!" screamed Jaheira suddenly. "If you had ever paused to use the rotten grape that passes for your brain, even once in the entirety of your cursed existence, none of this would be happening! Khalid would still be alive! Gorion wouldn't have died! Arowan-"

WOULDN'T EXIST.

"It would have been better that way," Jaheira replied darkly.

A horn sounded and the Order began to ride out. Realising that he was in danger of being left behind, Coran hastily remounted his horse.

"I do not pretend to fully understand what just happened here," Keldorn growled, gesturing at Amelyssan's headless body. "But Melissan was telling us the truth about Arowan's location. She cannot move her undead army during the day, but it is a long ride. We must make haste and catch her before she has enough hours of nightfall to get away!"

"Our clerics and paladins will make short work of her corpse army," Wessalen agreed fretfully, "But if Alorgoth taught us anything it is that only one person can deal with the Adversary herself."

Panic flooded through Viconia. Once the prophecy was fulfilled there would be nothing to stop Lolth having her way with her. Even if she won, she would lose.

"Well, Servant of all Faiths," Jaheira grimaced, "It seems your time has come at last."


	30. Last Ride

There was no time to even think about burying Amelyssan. Unless you counted being trampled into the ground beneath hundreds of hooves as burial. They rode for hours, Coran's satchel bouncing against his thigh with the rhythm of the cantering horse. Every so often he thought he could hear retching sounds coming from inside it and tried not to think too carefully about what Bhaal's motion sickness was doing to his belongings.

Soreness in his rear crept up gradually throughout the course of the ride. By evening it was almost unbearable. A small, optimistic part of him hoped that they might at least pause for supper but it soon became obvious that this would not be the case.

"My arse is on fire," he groaned at last. "Isn't anyone else bothered by this?"

His words spoiled a beautifully dramatic charge. Viconia with her long, silver hair fanning out behind her, Jaheira wielding her staff like a jousting lance. There were Rasaad and Anomen both clad in finest midnight black and riding sable horses. Keldorn resplendent in green dragonhide, the orange light of the setting sun glinting off of Casomyr in his hand and Bhaal's sword in Sarevok's. All of them glared at the elf.

"Nope, guess it's just me," Coran sighed. He tried to stand a little to ease the pain of his throbbing buttocks but the horse was moving too fast. "You ok buddy?"

I SUPPOSE SO. DON'T FORGET THE DAGGER, CORAN.

"The dagger?" Coran blinked stupidly. Whatever the meaning of this dagger that he was not supposed to forget, he had forgotten it.

SOULTAKER!

"Oh. Right."

Yes, Soultaker. He had been so distracted by the prophecy, by the slaughter of cities, their near death-by-dragon and the distressing prospect of Arowan's death that the fact that she still held Skie's soul had almost slipped his mind.

Divine debt ensured that it could never slip Bhaal's. Coran got the impression that retrieving that dagger was as important to the diminutive deity as his own resurrection. What would he even look like, Bhaal, once Skie was restored? It was Freya's failure to reclaim her from Irenicus that had trapped Bhaal in this form in the first place. In Freya's flayed body at the moment of the werewolf's ultimate failure.

"What do we do with it, once we have it?" he asked.

TAKE IT BACK TO BALDUR'S GATE AND SHATTER IT CLOSE TO HER BODY.

"We couldn't just break it where we find it?"

WE COULD, BUT LOOSE SOULS DON'T TRAVEL EASILY. SKIE WOULD DIE OF OLD AGE BEFORE SHE FINDS HER WAY BACK TO HER BODY ACROSS SUCH A DISTANCE. NOW SHUT UP FOR A BIT. I DON'T FEEL SO GOOD.

There was another round of violent heaving from inside the bag. Coran felt the first cool drips of rainfall begin to trickle over his hands and face. The orange sky was blotched with angry purple clouds. They were riding into a rainstorm.

* * *

* * *

Keldorn glanced at the darkening sky and a large droplet of rain bounced off his nose. The water was coming down harder now, ricocheting from his helmet with a metallic _plink, plink, plink._ This would be a day to tell his grandchildren of, when the Order averted the prophecy and helped take down the Adversary of all Faiths.

He regretted Arowan's fall from grace. Despite their occasional bouts of extreme silliness he had been fond of the Ilmatari pair. She and her husband had rescued his own marriage. He glanced sideways at Jaheira, whose face was as readable as marble. Then at the young knight to his right in Shadow Dragon armour.

Sir Anomen Delryn. The boy had come further than any pupil he'd had before. He was more scarred than the young squire who had begged to be admitted without so much as a sponsor to his name. Scarred both inside and out. Yet those scars had forged him into a true knight of the Order. If Keldorn's chest had swollen any further with pride, he might have fitted Freya's armour without the alterations after all.

Every so often the younger man's eyes flickered to Jaheira. Anomen was concerned for her. For all her outward hardness, Arowan had been family to the druid. The closest thing to a child that she and Khalid had ever had. Now she was about to play a part in her death. Anomen was far from comfortable with this himself, he had grown to view Arowan almost as a little sister, but for Jaheira it must be so much worse.

He tugged on his horse's reigns, steering it a little to the right, so that he could talk to her.

"I am sorry, my lady," he said. "I wish there was another way."

"There isn't," Jaheira replied bluntly.

"We all share your pain. All of us knew Arowan… before."

"You did not know her before. You knew her after the first numbing potion, after Khalid's death," replied the druid, her eyes fixed ahead of her. "She had already started on this path by the time you met her. I just did not wish to see it."

Anomen was already regretting starting this conversation but his fellow riders were closed in around them and it was going to be difficult to escape at a canter. There was a flash of light followed a few seconds later by a roll of distant thunder.

"Forgive me my lady. I merely meant that none of us want to do this."

Jaheira said nothing but she glared down the ranks and Rasaad at Viconia as if to say; _they do._

"Upon my honour, I do not believe that Viconia does," Anomen ventured carefully. "The instant Arowan's heart stops she will be at Lolth's mercy. Look at her. The lady is petrified."

* * *

* * *

Petrified was an understatement. Viconia's heart pounded so hard that the taste of copper flooded her mouth and she felt as though she might topple sideways from her mount at any moment. She had known for a long time that this day would have to come.

Tonight she would finally discover whether Lolth had been telling the truth, and Shar meant to abandon her. There was no hope for her but to hold onto her faith and pray against all hope that the Spider Queen was lying.

Rasaad rode one side of her, Sarevok on the other. It was odd for Viconia, to think that not too long from now Sarevok and Arowan would be merged into the same person. It was even stranger to see Rasaad wearing Alorgoth's Sharran regalia.

"So. Me or Arowan. One of us will be dead by nightfall," she spat at him. "Perhaps both if you are _very_ lucky."

Rasaad turned to her, pained.

"How can you say such a thing?" he asked.

Viconia knew she ought to let it drop but the wound he had inflicted upon her heart hurt too much to leave it alone. Despite knowing that it was the worst thing she could do, she had to keep picking at it.

"Do you remember the Nashkel carnival?" she called over the ever-rising sound of the rain.

Rasaad nodded. It had been a rare happy respite in their adventures. An almost magical landscape of multicoloured lanterns, painted silk tents. Music and laughter and plentiful food. At least it had been for him. Viconia had been kidnapped by a pair of Zhents and tied up under the jousting scaffold. He wondered why she was bringing it up now.

"We visited a fortune teller while I was there, did I ever happen to mention it?"

"By 'we' I presume you mean…" Rasaad did not finish his sentence. He knew better than to mention the Evereskan elf's name in Viconia's presence. She did not deign to either confirm or deny his assumption.

"The fortune teller foresaw our battle with the Dark Moon in the Cloud Peak mountains… among other surprisingly accurate predictions," she said coldly. Rasaad wondered where she was going with this. "It is a shame that you did not happen to visit her yourself. What would you have thought then, monk, if she had seen what I see now?"

A frown-line appeared between Rasaad's eyes. He understood that Viconia meant to be unkind, nevertheless he felt he owed it to her to try to answer her question in good faith.

"I would not have believed it," he replied simply.

"I might," said Viconia after a pause. "Perhaps not about Arowan becoming the Adversary but I could certainly have believed that the gods had a purpose for me. I had already survived so many events that ought to have ended me… and you wearing the symbols of Shar. I could have believed that too."

"Believed it and tried to bring it about," Rasaad recalled with a dry smile. "Frequently."

Their horses reached a dip in the road where a large puddle of water had already accumulated. As they galloped through it raising up great splatters of filth they stopped talking temporarily so as to avoid getting it in their mouths. As each rider emerged out the other side their legs and the animals were splattered with mud but if the rain carried on as it was threatening to, they would soon be washed clean.

"What is it Viconia?" he asked. "You seem unhappy. It is strange after all that has passed between the three of us that I am eager to see Arowan die so that my brother might finally be avenged. While you look distraught. I do not understand."

Viconia was glad of the rain, for it masked the tears rolling down her face. They had no proper rain in the Underdark unless you counted falling condensation from the cavern rooves, and she had feared it when she first encountered it on the surface. Yet only in the rain was a drow ever truly free to cry. Rasaad was watching her with concern. It made her want to scratch his eyes out! How dare he not only dump her but pity her too!

Still, he had to know some time. She could put it off no longer.

"Lolth comes to me," Viconia said, as matter-of-factly as she could. "In dreams, in feelings as a voice in my head."

"How long has this been going on?" cried Rasaad, aghast.

"Since Montaron tried to stab me outside Durlag's Tower," she replied. Rasaad's eyes widened in disbelief. That was years ago. "I thought she was trying to dispose of me at the time, but she had intervened to save me. She did it again on the road to Dragonspear Castle. Baeloth thought he had to sacrifice me to her until she personally ascended from the Demon Webs and forbade it."

"Why did you never mention this?" he shouted, water pooling down the tattoos on his face, distorting them.

"You were too preoccupied with your precious Arowan to care!" she spat nastily. "The Spider Queen has been coming to me more often, the closer the prophecy comes to fulfilment. Why do you think I ran into the crystal caves after you? I craved a night or two's respite from her relentless torment!"

Rasaad hung his head.

"I thought it was because you… never mind," he sighed. "But I don't understand. She needs you just like the other gods do! Why would she save you only to torment you?"

"Because the gods only need me until I stop Arowan!" Viconia screamed, so loudly that Sarevok could no longer convincingly feign deafness. He looked at her from atop his own horse, golden eyes unreadable. "After that Lolth will come for me, and she wants me to know it!"

"Shar…" Rasaad began.

"Will abandon me," Viconia despaired. "Lolth says it but I believe her. I joined the Twofold Trust, I defied Alorgoth twice, I was in lo… I was with _you_ … a Selunite. Shar will not intervene on my behalf. None of the gods will. It is hopeless."

Rasaad looked thunderstruck.

"What will you do?" he asked.

"Why? Are you afraid now that I will not destroy Arowan?" she seethed. "Worried that I will let her go and your precious Gamaz will moulder on unavenged?"

Before the monk could respond, she snapped the reigns aggressively and sped her own steed deep into the ranks of charging knights so that even if he caught her up there would be no space to draw alongside her and continue their conversation.

* * *

* * *

Hollowness that Sarevok had felt since Amelyssan's death was rapidly being filled with irritation. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that Sharran and Selunite would keep their private lives more private.

He had thought that exacting his revenge on Amelyssan would give him some sort of closure over the fate of Saradush. It certainly closed that chapter of his life, but it left him purposeless, and not sure what to do with himself. The splashing hammer of hooves against waterlogged ground made it hard to think.

Become Bhaal or attempt to ascend in his own right. To the old Sarevok this would have been a no-brainer, but supposing he did ascend? Then what?

Truth be told he had never thought beyond achieving ascendancy, even as a scheming young man in Baldur's Gate. His horizon had been dominated by the view of rising to godhood without ever really considering what he would do with the power if he got it. He wondered if Bhaal had been the same.

Water was streaming over the bald head and scalp of his companion rider, like a ball fountain. Rasaad did not know what he wanted either. Light or darkness? Viconia or revenge? It struck Sarevok that he could never have both. Arowan's doom and Viconia's were inextricably tied together.

"Rasaad," he said, frowning. "If I understand the prophecy correctly, the last Bhaalspawn standing will control Bhaal's essence. The Adversary will try to detonate it and Viconia's destiny as the Servant of all Faiths is to destroy her."

"That is my understanding also," the monk replied in a strained voice.

"But Arowan is not the last Bhaalspawn. Even if something untoward has happened to this Balthazaar and the dragon Bhaalspawn that we have not heard about yet, the fact remains. I am still here."

It hardly seemed possible, but Rasaad looked even more troubled than he had before.

"I do not pretend to understand how this game of the gods will play out my friend," he replied, "But I long since stopped believing that we mortals will be offered a choice in our role in it."

For a while they cantered on through the rain. The sun was slipping over the horizon and they were nearing the outskirts of the forest now, where the treeline blended into a series of ancient barrows bulging out near rocky cliffs. This land might have formed part of a coastline once but now the only sea at their base was one of grass punctuated by a few trees. The rainwater had nowhere to flow but down and the valley they were headed into was growing increasingly marshy.

"What if I do have a choice?" Sarevok asked.

"You mean this Balthazaar's offer?" Rasaad replied. This had not been what Sarevok was referring to at all, but he nodded anyway. It was simpler to talk about an abstract offer than the truth. "What do you think he means to propose?"

"An alliance perhaps. Against the last of the Bhaalspawn."

"To what end, my friend?" asked Rasaad. "Amelyssan is dead. Goddess willing, the Adversary will soon join her. You have no reason to fight each other."

Sarevok was sorely tempted to ask _which goddess_ but he refrained. Selune, Shar or the Twofold? Rasaad's latest fashion choices begged the question.

"We might," he answered resignedly.

Perhaps it was unwise to share his struggles with the monk, but he had no hope of becoming the last Bhaalspawn without at least some support. Who were the candidates to inherit Bhaal's throne, once Arowan was disposed of? An unknown monk, a vicious dragon or himself. Rasaad might well choose to back the devil he knew.

Of course there was always the fourth candidate.

Sarevok's golden eyes locked onto Coran's satchel. It had given up moving from motion sickness, but one fleshless paw poking out forlornly into the rain told him that the original Bhaal was still with them.

"Rasaad I-"

He stopped and sniffed. A terrible stench of rancid flesh was rising from the valley below. From the way the Order were heaving on their reigns and drawing the company to a halt, others had noticed it too. Aside from the snorting and shuffling of horses there was quiet.

Shadows were moving about in the valley. One of the clerics cast False Dawn over the landscape below flooding it with light. A seething mass of undead, freshly emerged from Sendai's enclave cringed in protest. Viconia's party drew up to the cliff edge with Sir Keldorn, eyes scanning the mass of bodies until Coran and Jaheira yelled and pointed at the same moment.

There was no decoy this time. Only two living souls in the army had not recoiled at the sudden light making them relatively easy to spot. A pale-faced ranger with a bowlful of something was being pressed to eat by a half-orc looming above her. The scene looked almost domestic.

"By the gods. It's her."

* * *

* * *

There, at the base of the boggy valley with nowhere to go, Arowan calmly carried on eating until Dorn smacked the bowl from her fingers impatiently.

"You're the one who's always nagging me to eat," she told Dorn frostily.

"Can't you see them?" the half-orc exploded.

His long black hair had come loose from its binding and was falling over one eye, making him seem even more deranged than usual. Already Rancor was in his hand, though these days he rarely troubled to sheathe it.

Up on the cliff edge, lit by the Order's False Dawn, her former companions looked down on her. Anomen, Keldorn, Coran, Jaheira, Viconia, Sarevok and Rasaad. Backed by a mounted army of clerics and paladins; expert undead hunters. All around her, her own army were squirming in discomfort at the light.

"Yes. I see them."

"What do we do? What are your orders?" the Blackguard thundered.

"I have no orders. We cannot win. The battle is a foregone conclusion," she replied indifferently.

A horn blasted from the clifftop. The paladin's horses were pulling away from the edge and beginning their gallop. These cliffs tapered off and levelled about half a mile away in both directions and the Order were splitting up to flank them. Half were led by Anomen and Keldorn, the other half by Prelate Wessalen. Arowan could run directly away from the cliffs but the Order had horses and their zombies had none. It wasn't like they'd get very far.

"Then I will drag as many of them with me into hell as I can," Dorn vowed.

"Whatever you like," shrugged Arowan, who was still watching Viconia and Sarevok.

Dorn toyed with running her through where she stood. After all, they had no further use for each other. Yet he could still harvest a soul or two for his master with any luck. Ur-Gothoz prized pure souls above all others. If he slaughtered Arowan the zombies would at best lose the will to fight alongside him and at worse pull him apart themselves.

By the time he looked from them and back to her she had already started making her way toward the base of the cliffs. Lurking in their shadow he could just make out the form of her monstrous spider, Valas.

* * *

* * *

"Pick a direction, Chosen One," Sarevok shrugged.

"No," said Jaheira and Viconia in a rare moment of unison. Drow and half-elf exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"She's coming to us. Coming to me," said Viconia shakily.

"Or coming for you Sarevok," Rasaad pointed out, prompted by their conversation. If Arowan was to complete her plan it was her fellow Bhaalspawn and not Viconia whom she needed to destroy.

Coran looked desperately from left to right. His unfortunate haircut was not improved by being plastered to his head with rain and his usual green band had been washed off his face. The elf looked oddly naked without it.

"She might not," he suggested hopefully. He wanted no direct role in his former lover's death.

"Arowan saw us and headed straight for the base of the cliffs," replied Jaheira with resigned certainty. "She is climbing them as we speak. I know her better than any of you. If we leave the cliff edge unguarded, she will escape us. _Where are you going?"_

Sarevok was already withdrawing from the edge of the cliff ready to gallop off after Wessalen.

"I cannot stop the Adversary. Only Viconia can do that," he replied pragmatically. "But there's nothing in the prophecy to say that she couldn't send me straight back to the Abyss, and Rasaad is correct. She will certainly try it if she gets the chance. I am getting out of the way."

NAH, YOU SHOULD STAY!

Bhaal poked his ugly head out of Coran's satchel, surprisingly brightly considering that there were flecks of vomit still clinging to his nose. Sarevok narrowed his eyes at his obnoxious father, knowing that he would like nothing better than for him to die and meld his god-essence back into the whole. Nobody was surprised when the Bhaalspawn sensibly opted to ignore Bhaal's advice and rode off to join the main battle leaving Coran, Viconia, Rasaad and Jaheira waiting at the top of the cliff.

They would not have to kick their heels as long as they expected to, for ascending vertically on strands of sticky web, hidden from their sight by the protruding cliff edge, Arowan was using Valas to make her way to them.

* * *

* * *

The oozy wet terrain slowed the Order's charge but not by much. A second easy victory against Arowan's undead forces was imminent. This time they had agreed in advance who would cast the False Dawns and when. Without blinding each other again, the valley was lit up like daytime. A few of the horses sustained scratches and blows from which they would not recover, but the weakened zombies could do nothing against the knights' polished armour and sharpened swords.

All the real casualties of the day were inflicted by one man. Dorn stood alone in the swampy ground surrounded by a mounting pile of dead and dying enemies. Each one, as he felled them, would be sucked straight to his master's domain unless their gods paid them enough personal attention to intervene.

"IL-KHAN!"

"Anomen!" the half-orc laughed unpleasantly, licking human blood from his sword. "Welcome to my patron's recruitment office. Do you have what it takes to fight for him for all eternity?"

The knight dropped down from his horse, Sir Keldorn landing in the mire alongside him. He did not bother to cast any spells for the more the newly knighted cleric used a sword the more paladin and the less cleric he became. His magic barely functioned anymore.

Hatred spiked through Anomen at the sight of Dorn. It was a strength of feeling that he had hitherto reserved for his own father. Dorn who had duped him into feeding Arowan numbing potions. Dorn who had mocked him and kept him a slave. Dorn whose foot was planted firmly upon the head of one of his fellow knights.

There were two of them but Dorn was as large as both men combined. Anomen, to his dismay, felt his own sword shatter in his grip as it made contact with Rancor. Dorn hit him with the butt of his sword before turning to the older knight.

Casomyr was made of sterner stuff and the two blades; one of pure evil, the other pure light, could not even make complete contact. Instead they stopped about half-an-inch apart, repulsed from one another like the wrong end of a pair of magnets.

It was raining so hard now that all three of them could barely see what they were doing and their feet slipped about in the mud. Dorn's strength far outmatched the aging paladin's and he forced Casomyr point-down into the dirt before drawing back Rancor to stab him. He was prevented by Anomen who, unarmed, leapt onto the half-orc's back and dragged him backward by his throat. The Blackguard wrenched him off unceremoniously and threw him against the filthy ground.

Keldorn charged forward once more. At the last second, Dorn turned and intentionally let Keldorn slash his shoulder. It was a wound which could be lethal from infection alone but the Blackguard did not care. He hadn't the slightest intention of living out the hour.

Before Keldorn could pull Casomyr free for another blow, Dorn seized his right wrist, pulled it to the ground and stamped heavily on the knight's forearm, breaking it. He stepped back, wrenched the paladin's sword from his own shoulder and cast it aside before drawing back for another blow.

The Blackguard grinned, raindrops dripping from his yellow tusks and soaking black hair. Keldorn threw himself sideways to grasp Casomyr in his uninjured hand but it was too late.

Dorn's blade found the one weak point in Sir Keldorn's dragonhide armour. The seamline over the heart where it had been altered to fit his chest rather than Freya's.

As long as Anomen lived, he could not forget the expression on the old knight's face as his eyes dropped to the sword buried in his chest. He looked so _surprised._ With a roar of triumph, Dorn kicked Keldorn off the end of his sword and the paladin fell back, his heart pierced and the light already fading from his eyes.

Anomen had no time to register his mentor's death, grieve or even think. He skidded to Keldorn's side and lifted Casomyr from his wet, lifeless hands. Already, Dorn was upon him and the clash of their swords repelling one another as Anomen parried his blow rang out even above the din of the battlefield.

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. This was certainly the route through which Anomen found Dorn's, driving the blade one handed under the half-orc's drenched armour, through his abdomen and into his chest. Red foam flooded the Blackguard's mouth, which he spat in Anomen's face as his last act.

To his disgust, Dorn was laughing, even as he choked on his own blood. He and his master Ur-Gothoz had achieved exactly what they set out to. A vast army of souls was now his to command in the next life. He was leaving Arowan's mortal army to become general of an immortal force in hell.

Anomen glanced over at the rain splattering Sir Keldorn's fallen body and felt the urge to say something, _anything,_ to lessen Dorn's triumph.

"Your mistress will fall with you! The Order has obliterated her army," he spat. A quick scan of the soaked battlefield told him that his words were true. Only a few pockets of undead were left to be mopped up by the marauding knights. "It's over."

Dorn grinned more widely than ever, though when he spoke his words were barely a croaked whisper.

"I have resided too long beneath the Little Lamb's hoof," he said. "By all means butcher her. My dying wish is that her death be slow and painful."

The half-orc's body began to shake and convulse in its final death throes. Repulsed, Anomen brought Casomyr in a wide stroke and severed Dorn's head, though for a few more moments the arms and legs continued to twitch like a mad puppet.

As if in acknowledgement of the death, lightening lashed across the sky and the rain turned from being merely heavy to a wave from the sky. Anomen wrenched off his helmet before it became so waterlogged it drowned him, and the water stung his eyes, but his hands were so wet that wiping it away made it worse.

He crouched over Keldorn, on the very small chance that the man might be healable, or at least have some final words to take home to his family. It was no good. Keldorn was dead. Anomen rose, Casomyr in hand, but his participation in the battle was no longer required. Arowan's army was all but destroyed, the Order's banners were already flapping in victory. Instead he stood guard over Keldorn's body, determined that Arowan would not be permitted to raise him as a last act of desperation or spite.


	31. Credulity

High above the battlefield Arowan saw her champion fall. Her fingers were almost as white as Valas' spider silk hair as she stroked the drow thoughtfully.

"Looks as though Dorn got Keldorn before he died," she said softly. "Pity. You stay here, but let me hold the end of your silk. Don't climb onto the cliff until you feel me tug on it. Otherwise I shall have to hurt you."

Threats were one of the few concepts that Valas DeVir's mangled mind was still capable of processing. He extended a thin wisp of spider silk from his own abdomen. Thin, but strong enough to withstand the rain. She steered him to a patch of cliff with lots of rocky hand-holds. It was a treacherous climb in this weather, but the former ranger was like a mountain goat on difficult terrain.

She pulled herself over the edge, rising about twenty feet away from where Viconia's party were waiting.

"Arowan!"

The Adversary stared down her hunters dispassionately, rain plastering her hair to her face. Her freckled skin was so pale and blueish tinged against the cold that she might as well have been dead already.

Viconia approached, her own silver hair dripping like mercury. The drow's face was twisted in agony for Arowan's destruction would most likely mean her own in the mandibles of Lolth. Arowan noted Sarevok's absence with displeasure as her cold, calculating mind took in the scene. Rasaad, Coran and Jaheira were with Viconia. Naturally none of them looked thrilled to see her, but the elf seemed distraught. He was the weakest link.

"You have come to kill me, I take it?" she asked indifferently.

"It's over Arowan!" Viconia screamed, miserably into the downpour. "Your Blackguard is dead, your army has been destroyed."

Arowan's long dark locks fell like a deep shadow over her shoulders. There was a heavy wind blowing but her hair and clothes were too weighed down with water to so much as flicker. It made her seem unnaturally still as chaos swirled around her and it struck Rasaad that she was still incredibly dangerous. She gave off an aura of glacial power and he placed a cautionary hand on Viconia's arm.

"Yes, it is over. I have failed," Arowan replied simply.

She closed her eyes, and spread her arms wide exposing herself to Viconia's flaming sword. Nothing but a common ranger's leathers protected her heart.

"Be careful," urged Rasaad. "Arowan has no cause to give up this easily. She would beg, plead and pretend to have seen the error of her ways as a last resort. That she is not doing so must mean that she has cards left to play."

Viconia hesitated. She hardly needed convincing, being in no hurry to rush into Lolth's web. Lightening cracked again, lighting the world and shaking the ground slightly. There was no gap between it and the thunder now.

"Why Rasaad, I do believe that you have become marginally less stupid," Arowan observed without opening her eyes. "Only a little though. It amused me that you still took the bait when I sent Gamaz to you. Did you forget that I knew where your brother was disposed of and Alorgoth didn't? Did it slip your mind that it was I and not he who had the power to raise the dead?"

"She's baiting you Rasaad, ignore her!" Jaheira instructed.

"You waste your breath Arowan. I have learned to recognise when I am being played," the monk told her serenely.

"Well, it happens so often," the Adversary remarked acidly. "Even you would have to spot a pattern eventually. I see you wear some of the tokens of Shar now. Tell me, has Viconia fully converted you, or have you finally decided to join the Twofold Trust in earnest?"

Rasaad said nothing. He and Viconia waited, knowing that they had to do something, but unable to shake the feeling that whatever they tried would be playing into her hands. She had bluffed them successfully so many times before.

"Anomen will be pleased. After the beating he and I took to get you admitted to the Twofold Trust it is nice to see you finally making the most of it," she went on in nonchalant tones. "Not that you ever appreciate my efforts. I bring back your brother for you and what do you do? You kill him again."

Deep down Rasaad knew that any appeal to Arowan's better nature was futile while she was on numbing potions, but thinking back on everything they had once shared something inside him snapped.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Arowan's eyes shot open but there was nothing in them but blank emptiness. She smiled down at Rasaad, a twisted half-smile. Her finger wound around the slender loop of silk in her clutches and she tugged.

"Why not?"

Lightening flashed again, framing a horrible silhouette appearing over the side of the cliff. It illuminated the spindly right four legs of a monstrous spider climbing over the edge behind Arowan.

"Lolth!" screamed Viconia, and she dropped to her knees shaking as violently as Dorn had done in his death throes.

Knowing that the moment of prophecy was at hand, her tormentor had decided to put in an early appearance. Would she snatch her and drag her to the Demon Web Pits the very moment that Arowan's heart ceased to beat? Bhaal, however, was unimpressed by the apparition.

CHILL VICONIA. THAT ISN'T A GODDESS.

For the first time, Arowan noticed what Coran had in his bag. Her eyes seared and without hesitation a blast of necromantic energy destroyed the tiny avatar sending Bhaal plunging back into the Abyss. Eric's ring glowed on her finger. For the first time Jaheira regretted the small god's absence. He had _been_ Eric in one of his lives and might well have some useful insight into the power of the ring now residing on Arowan's finger. A shame she had not thought to interrogate him sooner.

Viconia rose uneasily to her feet. The carapace certainly looked like Lolth's as the four visible legs scuttled along the edge of the cliff, but after she recovered from the shock, she realised that she felt no god-terror. And after all, Bhaal ought to know a fellow god if he saw one.

Arowan yanked the string and the spider scuttled all the way onto the cliff edge beside her.

Bhaal was right. It wasn't Lolth. It was something much worse.

A piercing ringing sound filled Viconia's ears, deafening her to all other noises. Arowan was already on his back by the time she realised that the screech was coming from her own mouth. Her beloved brother, who had sacrificed himself to save her from the Matron Mother, was still alive after all this time. A hideous, mutilated drider. His mind was all but gone yet his suffering remained.

Arowan was riding him like a pony.

"Valas!"

If the drider recognised his sister, he did not show it. Arowan clicked her heels and he clambered back down onto the vertical rock face, scuttling along the edge of the cliff past Coran and Jaheira, before climbing fully onto the flat ground and fleeing the confrontation.

Viconia could do nothing to prevent it. Her eyes were wide, staring at the spot where her brother had appeared, while she was screaming and screaming. Rasaad could not leave her in such a state. Not when he knew exactly how it felt.

"Coran! We can't let her get away!" Jaheira bellowed. The druid motioned her horse into action and the elf, reluctantly, followed her back into the woods they had just come from. They left Rasaad holding Viconia who had tumbled from her saddle and was sobbing hysterically on all fours.

The spider was faster than the horses. It had more legs and was built for uneven terrain, while they were built for grassland. Where they had to gallop around obstacles too large to jump, Valas simply scampered over them.

"Oh no you don't!" Jaheira screamed.

The woods were her domain. Here the druid was at her most powerful. Trees contorted their trunks and branches to block Arowan's path. Vines wrenched free from the ground to wrap themselves about Valas' weak, skinny legs.

In retaliation, every dead thing in the wood from half decomposed birds to swarms of undead insects rose from the leaf litter to attack her. They were getting further and further from the light of the False Dawn and Coran moaned as biting, stinging _things_ began to creep up the horse's legs toward him.

"There are more living things than dead ones in these woods, child!" cried Jaheira, summoning allies of her own. Better ones. Bears and foxes and swooping birds of prey. Every dryad within a ten mile radius heard the druid's call.

Yet each time Arowan sent a burst of necromantic energy at one of the creatures and killed it, she raised it up again to fight for her. Bit by bit Jaheira was losing. With a low sob threatening to choke his throat, Coran realised that it would have to be him. He raised the fine weapon from Baldur's Gate. He would have to shoot Arowan with her own bow.

"Jaheira, you cannot fulfil this prophecy without the Servant of all Faiths! Go back to her!" Arowan called above the splatter of rain. Her next words were drowned out by thunder.

It was the first time she had addressed Jaheira directly, but the druid was having none of it. She was behaving as though this twisted manifestation of Arowan was a personal insult. To her, to the original Arrow and most of all to Khalid. Yet if the fallen ranger wanted to avoid killing Jaheira, didn't that mean there was something left of the real Arrow after all? Coran couldn't decide. His green eyes met her deep dark ones in the failing light and his hands trembled. She seemed to him not evil but sad and lost.

"Coran?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, closed his eyes and fired.

The arrow buried into a tree, missing her head by at least half-a-metre.

"Coran! What are you playing at?" screeched Jaheira indignantly. "Get her before she gets us!"

"I can't!" he howled. "I'm sorry, I just can't!"

Arowan met his eyes again. She was giving him the strangest look. Where before she had been empty and cold _something_ was flickering inside her. Some light of recognition. He willed her to search herself for it, but the next moment Jaheira engaged her full attention again by sending a bolt of lightening to strike the ground around her.

A furious wave of necromantic energy erupted from Arowan's hands, striking Jaheira square in the chest. Coran saw raw terror in Jaheira's expression as her body began to rot from the inside out. The druid could not speak, her breath came out in gasps. Black fluid began to drip from her nostrils and maggots crawled from her lips.

It was a horrific way for anyone to die. Until this moment Coran could not picture anything worse than what had happened to Freya, but Jaheira's death was matching it. The decaying noise, the rotting stench. No smell like that ought to come from a living creature, and Jaheira was still living- just.

He raised his bow again, but it was too late. Arowan had raised magical shields about her and his arrow bounced harmlessly off them. The druid's eyes rolled back in her head, and her face collapsed to the side.

"Jaheira, no!" he howled.

Arowan's face contorted. The energy from her hands faltered, flickered weakly and died. Jaheira, who seconds ago had been on the brink of death, began to breathe more deeply. It was the ranger now who was gulping for air. Her entire waif-like body was shaking and tears ran down her cheeks.

"I can't…" she whispered. Lingering tendrils of necromantic energy withdrew back into her hands. The dryads Jaheira had summoned began to weave their restoration spells and the druid's face turned a natural colour once more. Her eyelids flickered. Not dying at all but merely sleeping. "I can't do it."

Arowan looked up at Coran doe-eyed and terrified and fled into the wood. Without thinking he gave chase alone, praying that Jaheira would be alright under the care of her summoned dryads. It was now or never. If he could catch Arowan before she had a chance to take more numbing potion then maybe, _maybe_ there was a chance of bringing her back.

The ranger was one of the fastest wild runners he had ever met, but he had a horse. She changed direction over and over, using her necromantic energy as she ran to kill trees and make them fall in his path. The further they went from the False Dawns the darker it grew until they found themselves once more in true night and he could only follow her by sound.

Nevertheless catch her he eventually did. She could not outrun a horse. Cornered between a stream and a rocky outcrop, the ranger started to sob.

"Coran! Oh gods, Coran. What have I done?"

"It's ok, Arowan, Jaheira will be fine. It's not too late."

He hoped. There was still that hideous drider lurking in the forest, but Jaheira had her dryads to guard her until she regained consciousness, and he got the impression that Valas had at least enough intelligence left not to feast on a person his mistress had spared.

"How can you say that? Of course it's too late! Saradush… all those people… please Coran, kill me."

She strode toward him, seized the tip of one of his arrows and pressed the tip over her heart. He lowered it immediately.

"No!" he cried, horrified by the idea. He wrapped his arms about her in the dark and felt her melt, weeping into his chest. "It wasn't your fault, Arowan. They made you take those numbing potions. It wasn't you, it wasn't your fault."

Arowan could not look more different from their time in Baldur's Gate. Rendered beautiful by the Charisma Ring but delicate now and starving where before she had been stoical and energetic. For a man like Coran there was no better or worse when it came to romance. Only old and new. The new Arowan; powerful and stunning, waiflike and evil but with just enough light left in her that she had not been able to bring herself to finish Jaheira. For the first time since the deaths of Freya and Safana, Coran found himself in love.

He stroked her hair. It had grown so long and was softer and silkier than he remembered. He had cared about her even before the Charisma Ring, but with it she had become utterly irresistible.

"You must kill me. If you don't, Coran, the others will."

"No. I won't let them," he insisted passionately. Before he knew it, he was holding her tightly, feeling her warm breath against his neck. A bird took off in the treetops, the rustle of feathers making him jump. "Come on," he whispered rummaging in his pack for a travel lantern and helping her onto his horse before climbing up behind her. "We must get out of here!"

They rode north through the midnight forest. It had finally stopped raining, but both of them were as soaked as if they had been swimming together.

"Where are we going?" Arowan asked him.

"I don't know," Coran admitted, his mind racing. "Anywhere. We'll book passage on a boat, cross the sea and disappear! You'll get better, we can put all of this behind us."

When he'd fastened the rope to his four poster in Baldur's Gate it had been partly in the fear that he would never feel like this again. Alive, with blood and adrenaline coursing through him. Ready to abandon everything in the pursuit of adventure and passion.

But he had to stop riding. The combination of water and night was freezing him. He could barely grip the reins anymore, his backside and thighs were a mass of chaffing blisters from riding so far. Even his horse (which had run for miles that day) was as fatigued as he was. They had a good enough head start on the Order so long as they did not hang about too long in the morning.

They dismounted in a sheltered grove and he pitched the tent with practised hands. There was little they could do for the unfortunate horse except tie it to the least drippy tree. Lighting a fire was out of the question, everything was too sodden, but they managed some food.

Inside the tent Coran shivered and unpacked his bedroll. Without a word exchanged between them, they stripped off their soaked clothes, spread them out to dry as best they could and laid their rolls beside each other before climbing in naked. There was nothing else to do- it was that or die from hypothermia in the night.

"Coran?"

"Yes?"

Arowan took a shaky breath.

"When I freed the slaves from Sendai's lair…"

"You freed slaves from Sendai?" Coran asked, heart melting.

He reached out to push back a tendril of damp hair which was dangling in her eye. The others were wrong about her, he realised. She could have slaughtered the slaves and added them to her army. Instead she had given them their freedom. Even on numbing potions she was able to show compassion.

"Yes, and one of them was from Baldur's Gate. He told me that things had gotten better since the last time I was there?"

"They haven't!" replied Coran emphatically.

He could just make out her dark eyes in the blackness watching him.

"What do you mean?"

Coran sat up a little, and immediately regretted it as the cold bit into his back. She shuffled beside him, propping herself up on her elbow.

"What exactly did the slave from Baldur's Gate tell you?"

"That Lady Skie was back in charge, but I don't see how that is possible," she said tentatively. "You see I have the Soultaker dagger and Skie is still in it."

She pulled out the knife and handed it to him, careful to keep the soul stealing blade carefully wrapped. He peered into the gemstone in the hilt which even in the darkness glowed with its own light. Sure enough there, in the middle of it, was Skie performing her endless solo dance.

His blood ran cold in his veins. What hell was this, to spend eternity trapped within a featureless fragment of rock. Did time pass the same way for Skie that it did for them outside? Had she been suffering since Caelar's fall? It didn't even bear thinking about.

"We have to take this back to Baldur's Gate," he said earnestly. "Before we do anything else. We have to destroy it close to her physical body. Otherwise the soul won't find its way back."

"Death seems preferable to this," replied Arowan, but he took the dagger and put it in his own pack, relieved that she did not try to stop him.

"It isn't that simple," the elf groaned, running his fingers through his shortened hair. "Bodhi is using her body to rule Baldur's Gate. If Skie's soul passes to the afterlife the only way to get rid of her is to destroy the body. Assassinating the effective leader of Baldur's Gate is no small thing, especially since she'll be expecting it. But if we let the soul out the body won't be uninhabited anymore and Bodhi won't be able to control it. Do you see?"

"No," replied Arowan, utterly bewildered. "What does Bodhi have to do with any of this? Unless… the phylactery?"

Between the pair of them, thief and ranger pieced together the whole truth. With surprising honesty, she told him the whole history of Freya's coat and how she and Yoshimo had little choice but to return it to Irenicus' sister. Coran found parts of it very hard to hear, but Arowan had loved Yoshimo, and nobody understood better than him the extremes one might go to for love.

"I'm sorry Coran. I didn't know what she was planning for it until it was too late. I thought it was just a sick joke to her, wearing Freya's coat."

"It's… it's not your fault," sniffed the elf. With Bhaal around, Freya's death and the manner in which it came about was easier to handle. Bhaal wasn't exactly Freya, but he wasn't _not_ Freya either. "Normally a wearable phylactery could only speak to its owner and try to influence them, but when they put it on a body without a soul Bodhi came to control it completely. She's pretending to be Skie and picking up where she left off as the _de facto_ ruler of Baldur's Gate."

Arowan said nothing for a long time, but Coran could still see her open eyes staring up at the blackness. She was certainly not sleeping. Rather, thinking deeply about something. He took a swig from his water bottle and she passed him a potion.

"We should both heal," she whispered. He heard the sound of another potion uncorking, trying to ignore the temperature in the tent which had grown even colder. He sniffed the healing potion she had handed him before drinking it. Arowan finished the potion she was drinking and placed the empty bottle carefully back into her pack.

Feeling less sore from the ride he lay back but his mind was racing and he couldn't sleep. Arowan was propped up on one elbow, watching him. It seemed she could not rest either, but they must, if they were to successfully outrun the Order in the morning.

Arowan was still watching him, eyes only partially closed. He got the distinct impression that she was waiting for something. Tentatively, he reached out his hand and she moved her shivering body close to him for comfort. Her lips pressed against his. He was already cold but her mouth was icy, unnaturally so. Excitement flooded his body, he had never experienced anything like this before. Dangerous, frozen but at the same time hot as hell. Redeemable. Just.

"Run away with me," he panted. Her arms and legs wrapped about his suddenly flushed body like a spreading frost. "I love you Arowan. I think I always have."


	32. Out of the Frying Pan

After the events of the previous day it was incredible that he managed to summon the energy for lovemaking, but where there's a will there's a way and Coran certainly had the will. The elf rolled back into his bedroll, finally overcome with fatigue and drifted off into the light snoring that Arowan recognized almost fondly.

In so far as she was capable of feeling fondness.

Never, with the possible exception of Freya, had she met a person so utterly led by their loins. She had feared that slipping a numbing potion in the tent would have been a dead giveaway. The aura of cold they emanated when uncorked was, to her at least, unmistakable. Then it would have been necessary to murder him, which would be a terrible waste.

Let him live and he was sure to figure out where she was going. Which with any luck would lead Sarevok straight to her. Of course, it would lead the Servant of all Faiths to her as well but a drow in a human city wasn't going to get very far against its leaders. Viconia had barely been tolerated during her first stint in Baldur's Gate when the then-leader was on her side.

In the dark Arowan's eyes sprang open again. Silently, she slipped out of the bedroll and gathered her wet clothes. There was no hope of putting them on when they were this sodden and clingy without waking him. She'd have to put a bit of distance between them first.

Soultaker was resting on the top of his pack. She snatched it up, put it into her own bag and crept out of the tent. The cold would have been unbearable were it not for the numbing potions. As it was, she felt the night's chill against her bare skin but did not care.

"Shhh…" she whispered slyly, untying his horse.

It whinnied and shuffled its hooves in protest, not wanting to ride again so soon. Arowan watched the tent carefully. If Coran woke, she would have no choice but to kill him. For a moment she considered going back anyway to slit is throat and retrieve her bow, but then she remembered where it had come from and where she was going.

To blackmail Bodhi she first needed to speak to her and her chances of getting past the Flaming Fist commander would be zero if she turned up carrying Corwin's own stolen property.

"Keep the bow then _lover_ ," she murmured. "You'll probably need it to defend yourself when the others discover what you've done."

She swung herself onto the horse, still unclothed. Only after she had put a good ten minutes between herself and Coran could she risk pausing to put her clothes back on. He'd never catch her on foot. Come morning, the sun would dry her out. Then she'd have to find somewhere safe to rest, but that shouldn't pose a problem. As a ranger in the wilds she was perfectly capable of making herself hard to find.

How to get back to Baldur's Gate? She'd have to avoid the cities along the way, even large towns after what she'd done to Saradush. Straight over the Cloud Peak mountains seemed the obvious option. She'd have to abandon the horse, but if the Order wished to follow her, they would also have to abandon theirs. No doubt the Twofold Trust would restock her food and supplies for her provided she got to them before the others did. It was possible that the monks may have heard rumours of her activities, but unlikely. They were very remote and by necessity isolated since the cults of Shar and Selune both wanted to destroy them. She would just have to risk it.

Beyond the Cloud Peaks were the villages where she had once been ranger. Again she was sure these people would help her. Beyond that the lands between the mountains and Baldur's Gate were easy terrain to find food and lose oneself in, with nothing in the way of monsters able to challenge the necromantic powers of Eric's ring.

"Sorry Skie," she whispered insincerely, taking out the dagger and staring once more into its depths. "But for now I need Bodhi. So long as I have you, she'll have no choice but to do as I say."

While Coran slept on in the bedroll they had shared, in blissful ignorance as to what he had just unleashed, Arowan rode for home. By the route she had planned it would take more than a month, but no matter. Time was on her side.

* * *

* * *

"Jaheira! Jaheira, are you alright?"

The druid groaned and blinked up at a pale blue sky. Every last drop of moisture must have descended from the heavens the night before, for it was clear and bright. Free from so much as a cotton wool wisp. There were treetops above her too but they were spinning.

Two eggs appeared either side of her. No, not eggs, the bald heads of Rasaad and Sarevok. They were spinning too, round and round. She lurched sideways, bringing her face to toe with the Bhaalspawn's boots and vomited.

Sarevok straightened up and grimaced.

"Viconia!" Rasaad called.

Petulantly, the drow bent over Jaheira and began to weave more healing spells and gradually she felt herself recovering. Though there was a lingering stink of maggot on her breath.

"Where's Arowan?" Jaheira asked blearily.

"She got away," said Rasaad heavily. "But her army has been destroyed. Dorn Il-Khan is dead. The Order are burying what's left of the bodies. It'd be better to burn them but it's just too wet. I'm afraid Sir Keldorn is also among the fallen."

"To hells with the bodies, we need to find her. She could be miles away by now!" Jaheira cried, leaping to her feet, and stumbling immediately from dizziness. Her staff lay amongst the other sticks and leaves a few feet from her hand. She seized it and leaned on it for support, looking about her wildly. "Where's Coran?"

"Anomen and his knights are scouting the woods for him," said Sarevok. "But there has been no trace of the elf all night. You should prepare yourself for ill news."

"No tears for those lost in righteous battle," the druid replied defiantly. She cast her mind back to the night before and shuddered. "Tell them to search the treetops for silk cocoons as well as the ground. That thing of hers has to eat."

"That 'thing of hers' is my brother!" Viconia half-screamed.

Jaheira was in a poor state from a night exposed on the forest floor and a brush with necromantic death, but compared to Viconia she was practically glowing. There were thin patches of hair either side of the drow's temples where she had ripped it from her head in distress. Despite herself, Jaheira found herself feeling sorry for her.

"We'll find them," she said firmly, peering around at the ground and adding; "We'd find them a lot easier if you clumsy brutes hadn't trampled over the tracks. Wait… that's odd."

She motioned them to stay still, then stepped a little way out from where she had fallen, scanning the perimeter bit by bit. When the others tried to speak she shushed them angrily. By the time she returned she was wearing a deep frown.

"What is it? What's odd?" asked Viconia, edgily.

"There are two sets of tracks. Arowan ran that way on foot and Coran followed her on horseback," Jaheira pointed to the north. "Your brother left a trail of silk. He went east."

"Forgive me, but isn't it a good thing if Arowan has lost her drider?" Rasaad asked.

"Not necessarily," replied Jaheira darkly. She began to stride purposefully after the trail of hooves.

"No, wait!" Viconia cried. Jaheira turned to glare at her. "Valas. I can't leave him here, like this."

"Can he be cured?" demanded Jaheira. "Can a drider ever be turned back?"

Viconia shook her head mutely. Beams of light were bursting between gaps in the tree canopy. It was gearing up to be a warm day, which was just as well because they were all still damp from the night before.

"Then what do you propose doing with Valas if we find him?" asked Jaheira. In reply, the drow pressed her lips together and said nothing.

"Can you track him?" Rasaad asked.

"Naturally. I don't even think it would take a druid. Any adventurer with a modicum of common sense could find something the size of a drider in these woods."

The spider would leave only the tiniest of footprints but anything that large moving through the woods was going to leave a trail of bent branches and snapped twigs. Jaheira hardly felt that one drider was the priority, but it was glaringly obvious that until the matter was dealt with the Servant of all Faiths would not be functional.

A clatter of hoofbeats told them that Anomen was checking in. He had been doing so regularly, anxiously waiting to see whether Jaheira had woken up yet. Losing her, Coran and Keldorn in the space of twenty-four hours was more than the young knight could stand.

"What about Coran?" asked Rasaad, more from a sense of duty than any personal concern.

Anomen's black charger burst through the trees, and to their surprise he looked furious. A brief flash of relief lit his face when he saw that Jaheira was up and about, but it was almost immediately replaced with barely restrained vexation.

"What about Coran indeed?" he thundered, turning to face a smaller rider sat behind him in the saddle. Coran was clinging on behind him in his shirt and breeches. Anomen had not even allowed him time to dress properly before bringing him back.

He dismounted, throwing his helmet at the ground in frustration and the elf followed, extremely red in the face, and unable to meet any of their eyes. Anomen seized him by the ear and practically dragged him back to their stunned party.

"What is going on?" demanded Jaheira, glaring from one man to the other. Anomen released Coran's ear and placed his hands on his armoured hips. "Coran, what happened? Where were you?"

"Tell them!" Anomen blazed. Coran coughed.

"Well you see…" he started awkwardly, "The thing is…"

"I found his tent pitched up in the wood a few miles north," Anomen glowered. "This _idiot_ was wandering around outside it in his undergarments searching for Arowan and his horse. When I rode up he had the gall to point his bow at me. He thought I'd killed her."

The others stared at him blankly. Apart from the bow, nothing that he'd described seemed to justify such incandescent rage. After all, Coran was supposed to be searching for Arowan.

"Let me go, I have to find her!" Coran pleaded, turning to the druid. "Jaheira, listen to me. After you passed out, she stopped attacking. She couldn't bring herself to kill you! I caught up with her, we were talking all night, and she can be saved I know it. If you could just have heard her! She was so sorry for everything!"

Jaheira shut her eyes and took a deep breath, fearing that if she responded too quickly she might strangle him with vines in her temper.

"You _idiot!_ "

"That's what I said," snapped Anomen sulkily.

"You don't understand," Coran cried urgently. "I won't let you hurt her. She only did what she did because of the numbing potions. None of you knew her like I did! She can be saved, I know she can!"

A collective groan rose from the group. Anomen started to slow-clap sarcastically and Viconia actually managed a hollow little chuckle. Coran blinked.

"I don't understand," he whined.

"Arowan has used you," Jaheira told him flatly. "You just let the Adversary escape."

"She… but there is some good left in her! She let you live!" Coran protested. "She was winning. If there's no hope for her then why not kill us both? She spared you!"

"And then she ran away from you on foot. _On foot_ , Coran! When she had an eight-legged mount that could have left your pony for dust!" Jaheira replied, her eyes blazing. "Don't you see? The whole 'I can't bring myself to kill you mum' routine was an act for _your_ benefit. She let you catch her _on purpose!_ "

Coran screwed his green eyes shut.

"Do not feel too bad, elf. She has done this to all of us at some point or another," Sarevok grimaced. "Manipulated us into believing that she was weak or innocent or remorseful. She almost succeeded in killing me that way back in Suldanessellar. Before she pulled Queen Ellesime's strings into declaring a war of retribution on Urst Natha. That's where Arowan got her first undead army from."

"She got us twice in Suldanessellar," Viconia confessed shaking her head at Rasaad. She was near driven out of her wits from the stress brought on by seeing Valas again, but this was almost amusing. "She did a whole routine pretending that she still recalled her love for Rasaad. It was very… convincing."

"And I distinctly remember her clinging to you and weeping into your breastplate," Rasaad reminded Anomen with a reproachful scowl. Suddenly Anomen ceased his judgemental glaring at Coran and looked a bit guilty. "Pretending to be horrified at the bloodshed she had almost started. You were comforting her as I recall."

"Did she cry for you Coran?" Viconia asked, her laughter rising hysterically.

All at once, the elf came down from his love-high with a horrible crash. He felt as though his insides had been filled with lead. It was starting to dawn on him that he may have just made an extremely stupid mistake, but he didn't want to believe it.

"Indeed we were all taken in by Arowan at some point," Rasaad said menacingly, taking a step toward Anomen, "But _only one of us_ gave her numbing potions."

Anomen had known this conversation was coming and had gnawed his own nails to stubs with guilt over it ever since learning that Arowan was the Adversary. However, just hours before he had watched Keldorn die. Butchered at the hands of the very Blackguard who had tricked him into giving her those potions in the first place. It had not left him in a conciliatory mood. Lip curling, he dismounted his horse and squared up to Rasaad, his gauntleted fist bunching.

"Not all of us were taken in, thank you very much! I wasn't!" Jaheira fumed. The druid was glaring poison at Coran. "How many times did I warn you? You idiot pickpocket!"

"You weren't taken in, were you? Why was that mongrel? Was it because you are so much cleverer than the rest of us?" enquired Viconia in a tone of false sugariness. "No… it wasn't that... I remember now. It's because while we were being duped by the Adversary, you were kitted out in skimpy leather underpants sucking the blood of innocents and running errands for Bodhi! Whose fault is it that the lich is now running a country?"

"Oh gods…" Coran breathed suddenly.

Sarevok's golden eyes flickered sharply in his direction. The others were too preoccupied arguing with each other to notice the elf's sudden change in manner. Jaheira and Viconia were simultaneously listing every resentment each had against the other (it was a long list) while Rasaad and Anomen were both red in the face and about to come to blows.

Coran ripped open his bag and stared into it. When he looked up his face was a picture of distress. It was not only his horse that Arowan had taken. Soultaker was gone too.

"Oh _gods!_ "

"Be quiet!" Sarevok bellowed at the party, so loudly that the birds in the trees around them took flight in alarm. Strangely, this actually calmed Coran down. It was comfortingly familiar. Freya's voice had also had that effect on wildlife. His golden eyes bore down upon the elf. "What exactly have you done?"

The others circled Coran and he suddenly felt very small and afraid. Like a child caught raiding the medicine cabinet thinking the pills were sweets. Now he was wondering just how bad the effects were going to be.

"She asked me about Baldur's Gate when we were in… in our bedroll..."

"You have got to be kidding me?" muttered Jaheira. There was a second round of groaning and despairing titters. Sarevok silenced the group with a look.

"A man she released from Sendai's enclave had told her about Skie coming back. I think she'd already worked out that Skie was an imposter, because she has the Soultaker dagger herself. All she needed were the details."

There was a stunned silence. With the birds scared away, even the forest itself was unnaturally quiet.

"And now she is riding to Baldur's Gate with Skie's soul in her pocket," Jaheira breathed, too horrified to be angry.

"What does that signify?" Sarevok asked warily.

"It means that Bodhi will have no choice but to do whatever she says, or she'll free the soul."

"Bodhi rules Baldur's Gate, and Arowan rules Bodhi," Rasaad baulked. "This is a dark day indeed."

Anomen moaned and buried his face into his hands.

"We took out her army only to hand her an entire country!" he wailed despairingly. "Keldorn died for nothing!"

For a while nobody said anything as the enormity of the situation sunk home. The knights of the Order were no match for the whole of Baldur's Gate even if they could be persuaded to lay siege to a human city, which seemed highly unlikely. To all intents and purposes, she would be unassailable. The only thing preventing her from detonating Bhaal's essence at her leisure was the continued existence of Sarevok, Balthazaar and the dragon Bhaalspawn.

There was some small comfort in that. Dragons live a long time.

"So, Servant of all Faiths," Jaheira said bleakly. "What do we do?"

Viconia thought about this for a moment, and then her face stiffened resolutely.

"Before we do anything else," she told them, "I must find my brother."

* * *

* * *

The Order dispersed. Prelate Wessalen assured them that they would make every effort to intercept Arowan on the road back to Athkatla, but nobody fancied his chances of succeeding. Least of all the Prelate himself. Nobody was surprised when he announced his intention to retire from the Order and join the Church of Ilmater as soon as new leadership had been decided.

"Fat lot of use they were," snapped Viconia miserably as their hoofbeats faded into the distance.

"Many of them died aiding you!" Anomen retorted angrily.

"They died aiding their own. They'd have dispensed with me if they could," she said.

As they followed the trail Valas had left behind she relayed to him the events of Deepstone Mountain. Anomen flinched when she told him about the Prelate's alliance with Alorgoth. Still, he was retiring now and the Order's involvement had come to an end. Against the city of Baldur's Gate there was little they could do, and nothing that they _would_ do. Prophecy or no prophecy laying siege to cities full of human civilians was not what the knights had signed up for.

"And you remain with us?" Rasaad asked, still glowering.

"I swore an oath of allegiance to the Servant of all Faiths," replied Anomen stonily. "And as you are so anxious to point out, this situation is partially my doing."

"Please, let us not squabble amongst ourselves," sighed Viconia.

Coming from anyone else in the group this would have been a perfectly reasonable plea for reason, but coming from Viconia it caused some consternation. How battle-weary, how mentally battered must she be when she was appealing for calm amongst her companions? Viconia who, in the normal scheme of things, would either be laughing at a quarrel or instigating it.

"Viconia I know I have not been my best of late-" Rasaad began, but she wearily waved him into silence.

"I just want to focus on finding Valas. I am tired, Rasaad. I'm just tired."

She had not slept since the night in Alorgoth's caverns and that was more than twenty-four hours ago. The Order had pitched her a tent for the night but it had been soaked inside and out. Yet the freezing cold was nothing at all to knowing that somewhere nearby her brother, whom she had long assumed dead, was trapped in the form of a loathsome drider. Sleep under such circumstances was impossible.

Arowan knew them, better than they knew themselves. She had driven Rasaad from the light into the umbra, worked Coran's weakness for falling in love and sapped Viconia herself of hope and the will to go on.

Cobwebs grew thicker and larger, until at last they found him, spinning a trap large enough to catch whole deer in a glade in the woods. Valas did not look up from his weaving as they approached. Viconia motioned the others to stop and stepped toward him alone, though Rasaad was poised to spring in after her and Sarevok had his sword drawn.

It was him. His face, his hair. They had played together as children. While their siblings had practised torture on the house slaves he had always wanted to aim for more challenging prey. Using her cunning and his burgeoning magic to pull spiteful pranks on the leading females of their house and getting away with it.

Exactly him, right up until his lower torso where the hideous unnatural seamline between man and spider was. Even after all this time it looked inflamed and sore, leaking a slow pus in places. As though each half wanted to reject the other.

"Valas?" she whispered.

He paid her no heed and looped a long spool of silk from his abdomen over a nearby branch, sticking it to the other threads of his web in a deadly shimmering curtain.

"It's me. Viconia. Valas, do you recognise me?"

Her toes caught on a single strand of silk. She stumbled forward with a gasp and found her hands stuck to more of the stuff. Valas looked over his shoulder at her, a nasty gleam in his red eyes. Adrenaline coursed through Viconia's tired body and she pulled away instinctively, ripping the threads up from the ground. The silk itself would not tear, but as she backed away with it still clinging to her palms, the web started to unravel.

Valas picked up the end in his palm and began to haul her. His arms, scarred from who knew what torture, were stronger than her own and she found herself irresistibly drawn forward.

With a whispered prayer to Shar she tried to heal him. Some of the more recent wounds on his body closed a little, but it was his mind she was trying to cure. The relief from some of his pain made the drider pause. His eyes narrowed in puzzlement, as though trying to remember the person he was looking at.

"It's me. Viconia."

With alarming speed, Valas lurched toward her, clawed hands outstretched. What he meant to do when he reached her, Viconia never found out, for the others skidded between them before he could get to her. His expression was not friendly.

"Get back!" cried Rasaad.

Valas did not listen. Driders were not known for being reasoned with. Instead he reared like a centaur and brought his arm down scratching Rasaad along the chest. The monk could have dodged it, but that would have meant leaving Viconia exposed. Long ago, a dragon servant of the mad god Cyric had blinded the eyes of Selune tattooed over his chest. Valas ripped them out entirely, leaving a gaping bloody wound.

As Sarevok and Anomen made to charge, both men found their feet caught in cobwebs, which the druid had to work hard to dispel. Bhaal's sword bounced off the carapace and Coran remembered how even the Hero of Baldur's Gate had shied away from fighting driders. This, from the crazy wolf who took on basilisks blindfolded.

"The joints between the legs!" he shouted. "Cripple him!"

Anomen didn't need telling twice. Casomyr slipped in the chink in Valas' armour where the leg joints met but a spider can function minus a leg or two. There was a stinger lurking under that abdomen and he brought it into play now, jabbing first at Anomen whose dragonhide armour protected him, then at Sarevok who dodged it and finally at Coran who was just slightly too slow.

He choked as the venom spread quickly through his body, paralysing him. He tumbled forward face first into spider silk but that was the least of his problems for the muscles he used to breathe were having to work harder and harder against the poison. He felt his own heart begin to slow.

"Stupid boy!" snapped Jaheira, abandoning Rasaad's wounds to try and draw the poison out. "This would be so much easier if I had my herbs."

"You're beautiful," Coran groaned blearily.

"If you can talk, you can breathe," she retorted and went back to patching up Rasaad, taking care to tread on Coran's puncture wound on the way.

Valas was down to his last three legs now and with a thud that shook the ground like a felled tree, he collapsed under his own weight. Sarevok and Anomen nodded at one another and together they raised their swords above Valas' stricken human half.

"No!" Viconia said suddenly. They paused, and she swept past Rasaad to lean over the drider. It was a miserable state even for one of his kind. Her healing spells were probably not enough to reattach his missing legs and even if she could the loss of his mind was permanent. "I do this with my own hand."

Viconia had been eight years old when she had made her first sacrifice to Lolth. It was not a skill one simply forgot. With a single vicious cut she opened Valas' chest through the sternum, tears springing to her eyes at his cry of pain.

Without realising it, Arowan had given her a great gift. She had been unable to save her brother from his torment in life, but perhaps she could in death. With a practised hand she ripped his still beating heart from his chest and severed it with her knife from the veins and arteries tethering it. To the horror of her companions she raised it still pulsing above her head, blood raining down her arm and staining her silver hair copper.

"I dedicate this sacrifice to Shar!"

Even as she screamed the words she could feel the suffocating fumes of Lolth's rage, but the goddess's fury was impotent. Valas was with Shar and forever out of her reach. What more suitable sacrifice could there be to the goddess of loss? Shar accepted Valas. With every fibre of her being Viconia was certain of it. Perhaps when her own time came the Nightsinger would intervene for her too, perhaps not, but clearly her goddess felt she owed her at least this much.

Or did the gods fear that if Valas' soul went to Lolth their Chosen One would simply lose the will to carry on?

"Ha!" Viconia howled into the forest. Her face and hands were splattered scarlet, her eyes as wild as the maddest of Bhaal's priestesses.

Gradually her heartrate slowed and her mind returned to the present. She knelt down beside Valas who was entirely still, save for the blood seeping from him and into the earth. His body was mutilated in more ways than one but his face, finally peaceful, might have been sleeping. With the backs of her fingers she stroked his silver hair.

"Pass now into shadow," she whispered comfortingly. "Into the night with no dawn. You will find no spiders in Shar's umbra."

* * *

* * *

They burned Valas' body, which took some time for the forest was still damp and he was very large. More than once, Jaheira pointed out that it was unlikely that Arowan would double back at this point just to raise an undead drider, however much he meant to Viconia.

"I'd prefer not to risk it," Viconia replied, tight lipped. "Imagine if Arowan were to raise Khalid to torment you. That is how Rasaad and I feel about the use of our brothers."

She winced at her own inadvertent use of the phrase 'Rasaad and I.' In another lifetime she would have slain him on the spot for his insolence in splitting from her. Instead his very presence felt like an insult. It also made her weary and sad. How Arowan would laugh now if she knew. Except that she probably wouldn't. Her enemy was past even the satisfaction of gloating now, except as a means to an end. What had she hoped to achieve by mocking Rasaad on the cliff edge? Perhaps to provoke him into charging her so that she could send him tumbling onto the rocks below. Viconia shuddered.

Jaheira's mind was also unpleasantly engaged. Would Arowan raise Khalid to torment her as an ally of the Servant of all Faiths? Silly question, of course she would. Hadn't she dragged her father, with parts flopping out of him all around Irenicus' dungeon the first time around on numbing potions when her only goal had been to get them out? The fact that he'd died had been a mere inconvenience. But _could_ Arowan bring him back? No. Khalid had not been laid to rest in any artificial box or stone tomb and the Athkatlan heat would have returned any recognisable remains safely back to nature long ago. Her husband was beyond the reach of necromancy.

With a little magical aid and ignited by Viconia's flaming sword, tongues of fire licked around Valas' body. He lay on his side, for when they tried to lie him out on his back the remaining legs poked up in a most undignified way.

"Are you alright?" Rasaad asked tentatively.

Viconia watched the flames engulf her brother's face and hair, and finally the horrible shiny carapace of his spider half.

"Yes," she replied truthfully, and perhaps for the first time in her life she truly was. "Valas is free of Lolth and the twisted body she gave him. And if he can escape the Spider Queen's webs then perhaps there is hope for me, even if I cannot see it yet."


	33. Into the Fire

They emerged from the woods into blazing sunlight. As they rode uphill and onto higher ground, Coran made the mistake of looking back. There were a lot of vultures circling the battlefield.

"Scavenger birds," he said bleakly. "I hope the Order buried those poor people deep enough."

The party turned back to watch the distant fliers beyond the woods, circling over the cliff edge where they had confronted Arowan. Every so often one dived over the battlefield. A few of them were peeling off from the flock, circling in ever closer loops over the forest.

"Damned fat for vultures," remarked Sarevok bitterly. The wretched creatures must have had more than enough to eat of late.

"Sir Keldorn's body is being carried back to Athkatla by the Order along with the other fallen knights," Anomen remarked, as though none of the others were worth considering. He was wholly indifferent to the fate of those unwilling conscripts to the undead army. "My brethren deserve better than to become bird food as well as dying pointlessly."

Jaheira was squinting at the birds in silence. She kept staring at them with narrowed eyes long after the others had lost interest. One of them passed closer to them on its longer loop and she sat bolt upright in alarm. The sunlight caught a bright blue flank, far too shiny to belong to any bird that she had ever seen. Abruptly, its head whipped toward them on a long, snake-like neck and the creature changed its flight path, headed straight for them.

"Those aren't birds," the druid cried suddenly. "Those aren't birds! Ride!"

They galloped over the crest of the hilltop and beyond. It blocked the trees from view, but then smoke began to rise high into the sky. Behind them, the woods had been set ablaze.

"What in the hells is happening?" cried Anomen.

"Dragons!" Jaheira panted. "Don't look back, keep riding!"

"So many in one place?" yelped Coran. "Are you sure?"

Without warning a great shadow fell over them, blocking out the sun like an eclipse. They looked up to see the silhouette of a vast winged beast with wide leathery wings directly above them. Its scaley head dipped to peer at the party.

"Yes, Coran I am _extremely_ sure!"

At her direction the party scattered as they rode down the hill, giving the creature a smaller target to aim at, but to their astonishment and relief it carried on past them. Every time it came upon a cluster of trees blocking its view it blasted them to ashes with fire before soaring up high once more and scanning the ground like it was looking for something.

Against Jaheira's advice, Coran looked back. Three more dragons had appeared from the direction of the smoking forest. They too were spreading out, circling from up high, their heads turning this way and that.

The first dragon was returning. It sprayed a wall of fire into their path, forcing them to draw the reigns and slow their horses down before landing in front of them with a thud. Close to it was a magnificent sapphire blue. The light shone off his scales like sunlight shimmering on the sea.

"You! Mortals!" it roared. "In the name of Abazigal, I demand that you tell me what took place here!"

"Who is Abazigal?" asked Rasaad.

The dragon opened his jaws to their fullest extent and roared. Though there was no fire the heat of his breath alone was near unbearable. Their hair was blown back and droplets of perspiration appeared at once on their foreheads. This was his answer. Abazigal was the one who commanded dragons. At this moment in time, what else did they need to know?

"I am Sir Anomen of the Most Noble Order of the Radiant Heart. Our forces intercepted the army of the Bhaalspawn Arowan and destroyed it," Anomen declared, riding forward. If he was going to die anyway, then he would do so as a knight.

The dragon twisted his elegant neck to bring his cunning black eye level with Anomen. It occurred to Coran that he had presented him with a prime target for a well-placed arrow. Eyes were one of a dragon's very few weak points. but there were three more dragons circling ahead and putting an arrow through the eye of this one would certainly provoke them to attack.

"What a coincidence," the dragon said pleasantly, with only a hint of underlying threat. "We came to intercept Arowan ourselves. She was on her way to pay us a visit, or so we've been told."

"Then I must be correct in thinking that Abazigal is the mighty dragon Bhaalspawn we have heard so much about?" Sarevok asked with cautious politeness. He had long navigated the treacherous corridors of power in Baldur's Gate and was no stranger to the art of diplomacy. "I take it you heard of her coming from Amelyssan? You might know her as Melissan."

"Quite," replied the dragon. "I don't suppose you happen to know where Melissan is now?"

"Dead. She told us where Arowan's army was after she came to you," replied Anomen flatly. He did not elaborate, allowing the dragon to assume that she had died in the battle.

"Hmm. World spins on, I suppose," yawned the dragon disinterestedly. He sniffed each of the women in the party. "Forgive my rudeness mortal females, but I had to check. You don't smell of death or Bhaalspawn."

As one, every member of the party prayed to their respective deities that the dragon would refrain from sniffing Sarevok. To their relief, he didn't. He was looking for a woman, and it didn't take a master detective to work out which one. Their relief was short-lived, however.

"We thought we'd come out to meet Arowan, but since she is already disposed of I suppose I'll just have to eat you and see what father wants us to do next," the dragon sighed. He opened his mouth and the glow of imminent death-by-barbeque shone from deep in his purple throat.

"Arowan isn't dead!" Anomen cut in hastily. "She escaped the battle. We are hunting her down as we speak."

The dragon snapped his jaws shut and looked suddenly alarmed. Without another word, he took off into the safety of the skies where he and his fellow dragons continued to circle. Presumably hunting for the necromancer, but from a safe distance.

"That was close," breathed Coran, running his fingers through his short hair. It still felt wrong. "Fuck me. You're lucky he didn't take a sniff of you Sarevok."

"You're lucky he didn't sniff _you,_ " replied the Bhaalspawn dryly. "I'll wager you still have the scent of Arowan clinging to you."

They felt incredibly exposed riding across the plain under the glare of the sun and the periodic shadows cast by passing dragons. It was swelteringly hot and between themselves and the horses by lunchtime they found all their water depleted and their mouths still dry.

"We must find a stream soon or an oasis," Rasaad panted, looking up at the barren sky. "For I see no hope of rain."

Jaheira said nothing. She had been scanning the horizon for any hint of water for hours but there was nothing but sparse vegetation and barren rock. It was the lack of animals or birds which gave her most alarm though, save for the occasional dragon. It suggested that the resident wildlife knew that there was nothing to drink nearby.

As the sun rose higher in the sky the brief shade offered by the circling dragons became more and more welcome but less frequent. Finally the last of their dangling tails vanished into a tiny spec in the distant, blazing sky and was gone.

The day wore on and by noon they knew that they were in serious trouble. Their heads were aching from heat and thirst, their bodies refusing to waste their precious reserves of water in cooling sweat. Jaheira felt her tongue shrivel in her parched mouth and scanned the horizon frantically for water but there was nothing. All traces of the moisture that had penetrated their belongings was gone, evaporated into the dusty air.

"We could try digging?" suggested Coran at length. He knew little about survival in the wilds. Baldur's Gate had presented many dangers but a lack of water in the soggy city had never been one of them. How he missed it now.

"Get out your maps," croaked Jaheira bleakly.

There was a rummage in the packs and large parchments of Tethir were spread out. They were not detailed guides by any stretch, for the party had never expected to come here. Only major cities were marked out. The nearest was Saradush, but that was near rubble, probably too far and none of them (particularly Sarevok) wished to return to the ruin if they could possibly avoid it. Anomen was grateful for the dragonhide armour. As well as being strong, shadow dragon scales seemed particularly resistant to temperature change. Sarevok was less fortunate, forced to strip off his heavy armour and carry it strapped to his back.

"We might be able to make it back to Deepstone," Viconia suggested doubtfully, but that road would put them back in the way of the dragons and was probably already on fire. They were fortunate that the dragon had missed Sarevok in their first encounter. They might not be so lucky a second time. Besides, there was no guarantee that the dwarves would help them when they got there.

"There's always this," said Sarevok, pulling out the screwed-up bit of paper that Balthazaar's monk had handed to him before the battle. "Amkethran. Three hours ride away, if that."

"Walking straight into a fellow Bhaalspawn's territory is risky," frowned Coran. "What's to stop him killing us on sight?"

Rasaad looked genuinely shocked that anyone would cast such aspersions upon a fellow monk.

"That would make your little terrier happy wouldn't it?" Sarevok replied, narrowing his golden eyes and the satchel where Bhaal had grown used to riding around. "I was not suggesting that we announce ourselves. We go in, fill our water skins at the nearest tavern and leave."

It was still a risky plan but they didn't have much choice. The hours from their position to the village were hard enough. Headaches grew more acute, the horses began to stumble over their own weary hooves and the party's mouths were too dry for any conversation.

Relief flooded them when at last a village nestled into rockface came into view amid the barren landscape. The desert here was so sparse and devoid of life that they wondered why anyone would build a settlement here and how it could possibly survive. Dominating the village, and seemingly carved out of the stone face of the rocks themselves was a massive fortress. Its cannons were trained at the skies.

"This must be Amkethran," Jaheira rasped. "A trading post, perhaps?"

"Damn well defended for a trading post," muttered Sarevok.

That fortress had to be Balthazaar's home. No doubt the upward pointing canons were for the dragons' benefit. Had they veered to close in their search for Arowan, or was the monk singularly well informed about which of his siblings still posed a credible threat?

* * *

* * *

The village itself was bound by no walls. The party made a beeline for the nearest large building, but it was a temple of Waukeen rather than a tavern. For a shrine to the goddess of coin the building was incredibly impoverished. There was the shadow of a mosaic of her face, like the one in Trademeet, but the tesserae of the mosaic had been chipped away.

People were staring at the newcomers, some even coming out of their houses to follow them down the street. They wore loose sandals which were more like strips of leather tied to their feet with cloth. Such shoes could serve no function other than to protect them from the worst of the blisteringly hot ground.

"I do not like the way these people are looking at us," Viconia said to Sarevok.

"Forgive them. They are not looking at you, they are looking at your horses," came a weary voice. They turned to see an old priest in tattered robes. His dry leathery skin clung to his shrunken face and his eyes had a hollow, hungry quality.

Now that he mentioned it, the peasants were staring at their mounts rather than them. Mostly with wide-eyed longing, although one or two with narrowed eyes were holding knives and weighing up their chances.

"Our horses?" Anomen echoed, with the blank cluelessness of the upper classes.

"They want to eat them," explained Coran, who had plenty of experience of hungry people from the refugee crisis Caelar Argent had once caused in Baldur's Gate. "These people are starving."

Arowan, before the numbing potions, would have handed them her horse on the spot along with all her gold and anything worth selling that they could trade for food. He thought of his own fortune gathering interest in Baldur's Gate regretfully. If he had but a hundredth of it to hand, he could solve all these people's problems overnight. He would have given them his own horse if only Arowan hadn't stolen it.

"We must beg for your aid. Our party needs water, quickly," Jaheira said.

The priest of Waukeen nodded slowly, his eyes creeping over the horse on which she sat.

"Perhaps we might negotiate a trade?" he suggested.

Rasaad dismounted and handed the reigns of his horse to the priest. Jaheira sighed bad-temperedly and followed suit. This left them only three horses; Sarevok's, Viconia's and Anomen's. They'd have to share. Viconia made a mental note not to let Rasaad onto the back of hers.

"We need our horses if we are to stand any chance of catching Arowan before she reaches Baldur's Gate!" protested Anomen.

"We have no chance of catching Arowan before she reaches Baldur's Gate," said Jaheira. "She's a ranger, she can easily avoid us and her water will last longer than ours because her horse won't need to drink."

"Why not?" puzzled Rasaad. In reply, Jaheira drew a line pointedly across her throat and then waggled her fingers to mime necromantic magic. The monk winced. "Ah."

* * *

* * *

The priest took them into his temple and the three luckier horses were given a trough of well water and some rest in a small, shaded paddock. There was no food for them but with any luck it would tide the animals over until they found some more hospitable terrain.

A small amount of food could, however, be spared for the providers of horse meat. He brought them well water (of this, at least, the locals seemed to have a reliable supply) and took away their water skins to refill them, leaving the party alone in the sparsely furnished house of worship.

Feeling it would be better to face the music sooner rather than later, Coran summoned Bhaal. The ragged little dog slunk out from under one of the pews and looked about him with round, lidless eyes.

SO, HOW BADLY DID THE ORDER LOSE?

"Why do you assume we lost?" snapped Anomen.

IF AROWAN WAS DEAD, I'D KNOW.

Of course, he would. She would merge into and become a part of him. Coran tugged at the scarf hiding the rope scar on his neck and began to explain the outcome of the battle and how he had shared a tent with Arowan afterwards. He did not explicitly say that the pair of them had sex, but Bhaal knew the elf well enough not to need to ask. The others watched on with interest, Sarevok especially. They were curious to see how Bhaal would take it.

"I'm sorry. Especially about losing Soultaker," Coran hung his head. "I loved her."

Jaheira's lip curled and she rolled her eyes. Coran fell in love far too readily. How quickly he had switched to using the past tense. Bhaal growled in irritation but gradually his snarl turned into a resigned sigh.

IF YOU HAD TRIED TO STOP HER, YOU'D BE DEAD AND SHE'D STILL HAVE SOULTAKER. IT'S OK MATE. I LOVE YOU TOO.

"No, I mean I fell in love. Romantic love. With Arowan."

I'M AROWAN. AROWAN IS ME.

"Not yet she isn't," snapped Jaheira.

SHE ALWAYS WAS AND ALWAYS WILL BE. SAME RUNNER, DIFFERENT STARTING LINE. THE BHAALSPAWN HAD DIFFERENT SPECIES, WERE RAISED IN DIFFERENT CULTURES WITH DIFFERENT VALUES AND SKILLS BUT SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE.

Coran cocked his head and looked at the mangled little dog. It was possible to get used to the way his exposed muscles slithered over one another, his unblinking stare and even the way this skinned-alive avatar would periodically sweat blood. It ceased to be horrific after a while, but only to a point.

"Do not take this the wrong way, Bhaal, but I am not attracted to you at all," he said flatly.

"And I am not attracted to you, elf," Sarevok chimed in hastily, just in case anybody had mistaken Bhaal's statement for a reflection of his own feelings.

AH, BUT YOU ARE!

Coran blinked at Sarevok in mild alarm. The demigod's golden eyes settled briefly on the elf, as though for a split second he was afraid that Bhaal might have some insight unknown even to him, but then he shook his head, clearly relieved at his total absence of arousal.

I DON'T MEAN IN A GAY WAY.

"What's wrong with that?" sniffed Jaheira. Bhaal groaned at her.

GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK! YOU CAN'T ACCUSE ME OF NOT BEING POLITICALLY CORRECT- I WAS FREYA! AND PLENTY OF OTHER GAY BHAALSPAWN BESIDES.

"Nobody, and I mean _nobody_ , would ever have described Freya as 'politically correct,'" Jaheira replied caustically. "Do you even know what that phrase means?"

SHE WAS _LITERALLY_ A POLITICIAN.

"Albeit not for very long," muttered the druid. "And in any case that isn't what politically correct means."

WHATEVER. THE POINT I WAS MAKING IS THAT THERE IS A REASON YOU LOT KEEP CROPPING UP IN MY LIVES AGAIN AND AGAIN. I'M DRAWN TO THE SAME PEOPLE. BECAUSE WHETHER I'M FREYA, AROWAN OR SAREVOK, DEEP DOWN I'M ALSO STILL _ME._

Coran looked at his hands. He had felt drawn to Arowan within moments of meeting her. Freya too. Yes, because they were single women but there was more to it than that. Arowan hadn't been the most attractive woman to turn up in his life that day, nor even close. Was that the reason? She was a manifestation of Bhaal and if she also happened to be a potential sexual partner, so much the better?

They sat awkwardly for a while, then Bhaal asked casually;

WHERE ARE WE?

"Amkethran. It's a desert village to the east of-"

Bhaal cut them off with a yelp. He actually fell off the pew in alarm, before placing both front paws on Sarevok's back in a futile attempt to push him to his feet.

THIS IS BALTHAZAAR'S TERRITORY. YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!

"I am well aware of whose home this is," replied Sarevok, not budging an inch. "One of his monks handed me a map to this place."

AND YOU ACTUALLY FOLLOWED IT? ARE YOU MAD?

"We needed water," replied the Bhaalspawn flatly. "One of Balthazaar's monks handed me a map here, saying he wanted to make me an offer. This was the only place with water we knew we could reach."

I CAN FIND YOU WATER! I KNOW THIS REGION FROM DOZENS OF DIFFERENT LIFETIMES.

"Most of them chinchilla's," Viconia snickered. Bhaal ignored her, his eyes fixed imploringly on Sarevok.

YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE FAST!

The small god hopped down, took a mouthful of his wayward son's trouser leg and attempted to drag him away. Given their respective sizes this did nothing but irritate the Bhaalspawn, who lashed out with his foot sending Bhaal flying. Sarevok got to his feet, lifted Bhaal by the middle and held him to eyelevel.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

BECAUSE BALTHAZAAR WILL KILL YOU. IT'S A TRAP, OBVIOUSLY.

"Is it indeed?" asked Jaheira, equally untrusting. "I have heard you do nothing but champion the murder of Sarevok ever since you first clapped eyes on him. Now you claim to be trying to save his life? I wonder… what sort of offer does Balthazaar wish to make to Sarevok?"

THE SAME ONE HE MADE TO YAGA-SHURA AND SENDAI AND PROBABLY ABAZIGAL TOO!

"Which is?" Jaheira pressed.

A BAD ONE!

Bhaal was practically howling now, his distress palpable. Instead of being sympathetic however, the Bhaalspawn was looking at Jaheira and a grin was starting to creep over his face.

"It was my intention to leave as soon as the priest returned with our water," Sarevok said mildly. "But on reflection I'm minded to linger here a little longer. Whatever this offer is that you are so determined I not take, I would like to hear it."

"Careful, it could be a double bluff!" warned Anomen. "Perchance he is using reverse psychology to trick us into staying."

Jaheira, Coran, Rasaad and Viconia (all of the party who had known Freya in life) snorted with laughter.

"Not a chance," grinned Coran, but he would not elaborate. It was left to Viconia to explain the truth to the confused men.

"Bhaal isn't that smart," she smirked.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> _**Writer's Note (OUTTAKES):** _
> 
> _**I wrote these stories in reverse order. These are scenes from a very early draft of the Ashes of Urst Natha with a few storylines that never made the final cut, but I really liked them as little pieces of stand-alone dialogue so here they are:** _
> 
> _**xx** _
> 
> _**Abandoned plotline #1 – Jaheira and Anomen have (very) drunk sex.** _
> 
> …
> 
> _"Is there something going on with those two?" asked Coran._
> 
> _"It is complicated," Rasaad replied heavily._
> 
> _"They drank too much and had sex. He wants to make a thing of it. She doesn't," said Viconia bluntly._
> 
> _"I suppose it is not so very complicated after all, when you put it like that," sighed Rasaad._
> 
> …
> 
> _"It is cruel to use someone physically and then dump them," Rasaad remarked in a judgemental tone._
> 
> _"Was that an attempt at humour?" snapped Viconia._
> 
> _"I don't understand," he said._
> 
> _"Of course you don't, Mooncalf," Viconia said through gritted teeth. "If you need me I will be in the stables."_
> 
> " _The stables? What for?"_
> 
> " _I need to speak to the proprietor about purchasing a gelding knife."_
> 
> …
> 
> _"Tough isn't it? Losing your closest friend?" said Coran casually._
> 
> _"My 'close friend' spent the night with me and then rejected me. Your best friend was flayed alive and turned into a coat. I'm not sure how well those two situations compare," replied Anomen sourly._
> 
> _"You've changed," said Coran. "You never used to be this cynical."_
> 
> _"What happened, happened," he answered bitterly. "Best to accept it and move on."_
> 
> _**xx** _
> 
> _**Abandoned Plotline #2 – Hexxat** _
> 
> _**xx** _
> 
> " _I never met Freya," replied Hexxat._
> 
> " _You would have liked her," said Jaheira. "At least until she started talking."_
> 
> " _Doubtless you could have found ways of keeping her mouth occupied that would have spared you the need to hear her talk," said Rasaad._
> 
> _You could have heard a feather drop in the silence that followed this remark. Everyone goggled at him in disbelief._
> 
> " _Rasaad, exactly how many blows to the head have you been taking recently?" asked Neera slowly._
> 
> " _Forgive me the vulgarity but were Freya still with us that would undoubtedly have been her response to what Jaheira just said," said Rasaad simply, "I thought it a fitting tribute to our fallen comrade to say it for her."_
> 
> " _Sounds like a ghastly woman," said Anomen with his customary sensitivity._
> 
> " _She was. She really was," said Rasaad regretfully, "But I miss her."_
> 
> " _Just think 'female-Coran' but better looking. That was Freya," laughed Viconia. Rasaad frowned and shook his head._
> 
> " _It was bravado," he reflected sadly. "She wanted to meet someone, get married, raise a family. She just didn't believe it would happen for her. 'Monsters don't get happy endings.' That's what she used to say."_
> 
> _For a moment the party stared into the flickering flames, lost for words. Though she and Freya had never met, the vampire looked especially pained. The phrase 'monsters don't get happy endings' seemed to have struck a nerve._
> 
> " _Thank you," said Hexxat. "I feel like I do know her a little bit now."_


	34. The Monks of Amkethran

Rasaad was feeling uncomfortable about Viconia. He had known that sacrificing still-beating hearts to an evil goddess had once been her day job. But it was one thing to know it as something that had happened in the distant past and another to see it in the flesh. Or _out of_ the flesh as Valas' heart had ended up.

Nor was he the only one rattle by the event. The other men were discussing it too as they settled into the cramped, uncomfortable accommodation that the priest of Waukeen had arranged for them. He had given Jaheira and Viconia his own room which left him sleeping under the altar, but the chapel was small and impoverished. There wasn't much space to spread out but at least they could lay down their heavier belongings while they decided what to do. Those wearing armour were especially grateful for the chance to shed it and leave it behind while they explored the sweltering village.

"It was not an easy cut to make, straight through the breastbone," Sarevok remarked. "There are butchers back home in Baldur's Gate who would have struggled to do what she did."

"It was still pulsing after she cut it out," Anomen shuddered, "And it's a good thing she always keeps her hood up when we go into town. Her hair is red with blood."

"Am I the only one who's a bit turned on by that?" ventured Coran.

NOPE. SO, SHALL WE MOVE ON THEN?

Sarevok glared at Bhaal's petite avatar and took another long, welcome gulp of water. It was unpleasantly warm but at least it was wet.

"We will take a short rest and then scout out Balthazaar's keep," he said. "It would be prudent to see it for ourselves before we decide whether or not to walk into it."

IF HE DISCOVERS YOUR PRESENCE YOU WON'T GET A CHOICE. YOU SHOULD GO NOW!

Bhaal was quite insistent, but it was no secret that he wanted Sarevok to die as quickly as possible. This did not make the man inclined to listen to his advice.

"I'd have thought whatever Balthazaar is offering would be the least of your worries. If Amelyssan's job was to perform the ritual to bring you back, doesn't that leave you in a bit of a pickle?" Jaheira asked smugly. She had appeared at the door with Viconia in tow. Both women were looking at the bare stone floor the men had to sleep on with superior expressions. "There's nobody left to do it now."

ACTUALLY, IT HAS ALREADY BEEN DONE.

"Oh," the druid looked rather put out.

The women searched around for something to sit on. Coran eyed his own lap hopefully but in the end they both crouched down. Viconia's hair was dripping. She had rinsed out the blood in a small basin with moderate success. It was now more of a pale hint of ginger than an unpleasant reddish-brown.

EROWAN STARTED THE RITE WHEN SHE SUMMONED ME AT THE TWOFOLD TEMPLE, AND CORAN HAS BEEN REINFORCING IT IN DRIBS AND DRABS EVERY TIME HE SUMMONS ME.

"Wait, I've been doing _what?_ " Coran yelped.

Friendship with Bhaal was questionable enough in the eyes of his own gods, but actively reviving the Lord of Murder might well put him beyond the pale. Would the Seldarine forgive one of their followers for that? Forget Freya; the elf was starting to have serious concerns about his own afterlife.

I'M PRETTY MUCH WHOLE NOW. ALL IT TAKES IS ONE MORE SUMMONING AFTER THE LAST BHAALSPAWN DIES, WHICH SHOULD BE SOON WITH ANY LUCK.

"I'm standing right here," Sarevok reminded him through gritted teeth.

"Mate, no! I don't think I can do that!" Coran told Bhaal shakily. There were few things he would not have done for Freya, but single-handedly reviving the Lord of Murder was one of them.

YOU MIGHT AS WELL. SOMEBODY IS BOUND TO TRY IT EVENTUALLY. I STILL HAVE FOLLOWERS.

"Fine! Let one of them do it!"

Bhaal put his paws up on Coran's knee, tucked his scrawny tail between his legs and whined. It seemed like he was going for cute puppy but there was nothing remotely appealing about him.

THAT COULD TAKE DECADES. CENTURIES EVEN! COME ON CORAN, I'M FED UP WITH THE ABYSS! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS-

"I'm serious, I'm not doing it! My gods will reject me, I'll go to hell!"

NAH, IF THEY DO THAT YOUR SOUL CAN HANG OUT IN MY DOMAIN INSTEAD!

"You mean the Abyss? No thank you!" Coran replied shrilly.

"Good call," nodded Sarevok with a shudder.

He had spent a relatively short time in the Abyss (compared with eternity) but he was in no hurry to go back. Sure, Coran would not have his entrails ripped out and gobbled in front of him by Freya on a daily basis, but there was still the reek of sulfur, the desolate landscape, the echoing shrieks of Bhaal's victims.

THERE'LL BE SUCCUBI…

Jaheira's lip curled at Bhaal's transparent effort to tempt his shallow friend, and it curled even further when Coran cocked his head dreamily to one side.

"Sorry, still no," he sighed.

I COULD TAKE THE FORM OF QUEEN ELLESIME?

Though only half-elven herself, Jaheira felt unable to let this slight to her heritage slide and she struck Bhaal over the paws with her staff.

"You would even stoop to prostituting yourself, you revolting pervert?"

Bhaal considered pointing out to her that over the course of his many lives he had been several amateur prostitutes. One of them quite successful given her penchant for poisoning wealthier clients and stealing their wallets. Still, it occurred to him that this disclosure was unlikely to endear him to the druid, so he held his tongue.

I _REALLY_ WANT TO ASCEND AGAIN.

"Besides, some of you have fucked Coran before," Viconia pointed out fairly.

Her scarlet eyes glimmered wickedly at Jaheira's expression. She had mainly been referring to Freya who'd had a short, ill-advised fling with the elf when he had become temporarily trapped in a feminising girdle. However, once Arowan died, Bhaal would absorb the memory of her also sharing Coran's bed. It was not an event that Jaheira was particularly pleased to be reminded of.

"What about Hanali?" Coran asked, his fevered imagination getting the better of him. "Could you do Hanali Celanil, the elfin goddess of love?"

Jaheira's eyes bulged almost as much as Bhaal's. She looked as though she might explode with disgust, like a bursting sewer pipe. Fortunately, the god shook his mangled head regretfully.

PROBABLY NOT WITHOUT STARTING A CELESTIAL WAR. I COULD TRY, BUT IF SHE EVER GOT WIND OF IT I'D HAVE THE ENTIRE ELFIN PANTHEON UP MY TAIL. MIND YOU…

Bhaal padded over to Rasaad who paused shaving to eye him warily. His soft foamy lather dripped slowly from his chin giving the impression of a loosely attached beard. It rather suited him.

SELUNE IS MORE OF A LONE OPERATIVE. I RECKON I COULD DEFEND MYSELF AGAINST HER. SO RASAAD, IF YOU'D LIKE ME TO TAKE ON YOUR GODDESS'S FACE FOR THE NIGHT IN EXCHANGE FOR ROUNDING UP MY RITUAL…

The god was already skittering away before he had finished his sentence, and it was this alone that saved him from Rasaad's downward chop. His claws clicked rapidly across the floor and he leapt into the safety of Viconia's lap. She was laughing so hard that she was squeaking like a chew toy. Unwilling to fight his former lover to punish the insolent monstrosity, Rasaad returned resentfully to his seat and resumed shaving.

"But no Hanali?" ventured the elf.

NOPE.

"Then the answer is still no," Coran replied resolutely.

"It is so nice to travel with a gentleman of such uncompromisable morals," Jaheira told him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Coran shrugged at her from under his botched haircut. He was who he was.

* * *

* * *

At first Viconia was content for the others to scout out the monastery without her. She preferred to keep a low profile in human settlements. Yet the day grew hotter, the temple became unbearably stuffy and every so often a worshipper or beggar would meander in anyway. After an hour of kicking her heels, the drow decided that she would be better off under the protection of her party after all and set out to find them.

It was safe to assume that they had looked for high ground so she began to climb, scaling splintering ladders which seemed to be propped up against every dwelling. The houses here were in layers carved out of the rockface. The rooftop of one street was the pavement of the one above it.

As she climbed hot dust blew about her, irritating her eyes and her palms grew damp with sweat. At the top of the cliff perched a mysterious copper contraption covered with gears and levers. A long telescope poked out of it that a muttering old man was training at the skies.

"Why hello there," he croaked. He might have been a gnome but he was so old, his skin so shrivelled and baked by the relentless sun that it was difficult to be sure. "What a lot of visitors I have today. It's not often so many people come up here. It is the reason I chose such a remote location for my research after all."

"What kind of research?" Viconia panted, secretly welcoming any excuse to pause climbing.

"Well no doubt you will ridicule me for my work, as so many others have before. Still, I'm used to it so I suppose I can tell you something of what I do. I make armour and weapons too. Powerful, powerful weapons and armour. It's a process I've been honing for years and years seeking to tap into the power of the metal unit."

Viconia shielded her eyes from the sun.

"What is the metal unit?"

"A legendary armour from the annals of history!" cried the little man. "There was once a self-proclaimed lord who boasted of his immeasurable lower regions until his son, Pantagruel, questioned the accuracy of the ruler. There was a great rebellion. His father warned the boy that the people would cut him no slacks, but he never listened, and had burned his britches behind him. Undaunted, he fulfilled his animus with the robes of his father, as uncomfortable as that might sound, and shaped the Metal "Unit" with his own hands."

That confirmed it. This sort of crazed, non-sensical but above all longwinded rant could only come from a gnome.

"The rule of Pantagruel was a discommoding morass, his armour eventually suffering a breach in the breech that proved his undoing. As his basket left the pantry, so to speak, his regime fell to insurrection, and so complete was the sacking that not even his Metal "Unit" could be found. The component pieces, a pantaloon triumvirate, were lost in the annals of time."

"You make weapons out of pantaloons?" she hazarded, trying to make sense of the gnome's words against her better judgement.

"Not just any pantaloons! I seek three special pantaloons of legend! One of gold, one of silver and the pantalets of bronze!"

Viconia cocked her head to one side, trying to decide whether she could get away with stabbing the little creature in the throat to make it shut up. She climbed on, thinking that if her party were not visible from the summit she may just have to give up on the universe and pitch herself off it.

"As it happens, I may have come across the golden pantaloons on my travels," she recalled. The gnome stopped wittering and goggled at her. "Stretchy things? Made of golden thread and woven so tightly that they look like molten metal?"

"Truly you have beheld them!" cried the gnome excitedly, leaping from his seat at the telescope. "Where were they?"

"In Athkatla. Some rivvil nobleman was wearing them at the Order of the Radiant Heart," she sniffed indifferently.

The gnome wriggled on his bottom, almost dancing with excitement. His eyes shone out of his crumpled parchment face.

"I must inform Balthazaar! He has promised me his aid in finding them in exchange for my monitoring of the skies," the gnome cried blissfully. He leaped up and began to scamper down the ladder, ignoring the fact that she was already halfway up it.

"I shouldn't bother!" Viconia snapped irritably. "They were destroyed by the Adversary."

"Destroyed?" the gnome echoed in a hollow voice. "How?"

"She tried them on," shrugged Viconia. "They ripped over her sizable rear end. The owner was quite annoyed about it apparently."

Without warning, the gnome burst into shrill tears. He released the ladder, falling dramatically not to his death but onto the rooftop below. At length he got up cursing and limped home, sobbing all the way. The drow would not miss her new acquaintance.

"Viconia! Viconia, hey!" Coran's voice floated merrily down to her. "You'll appreciate this! Come on, check it out!"

Viconia's sweaty hands slipped on the rungs as she climbed the ladder. She paused at the top for a gulp of water, but Coran and Sarevok grabbed her sleeves, tugging her into a crouching position.

"Unhand me dathiir! What the-?"

"Shhh!" Coran grinned.

The three of them commando crawled to the edge of the cliff, into the shade of the mysterious gnomish telescope. Rasaad was already there.

From their vantage point they could see into the courtyard of Balthazaar's monastery. Rasaad was taking advantage of the tactical value of this discovery, to scout out the potential enemy. Judging by Coran's gleeful expression, he was thinking along very different lines.

At least a dozen shirtless monks were training in the courtyard. Two pairs, one male and one female, were sparring each other, while the rest honed their bodies with weights and sit-ups. Even from this distance their muscles gleamed in the sun.

"I could watch this all day," grinned Coran. "Is this how the female monks of the Sun Soul work out Rasaad? If so, why in Hanali's blessed name did you ever leave?"

"Get a grip, ridiculous darthiir!" laughed Viconia.

"Nah, that'd be creepy. Maybe later in the privacy of my own room."

This remark earned him an indignant huff from Anomen, though the knight's eyes had not strayed from the topless fighting women throughout the entire conversation.

"Now Viconia, I have something important to ask you. Sarevok and I have a bet. I'm rooting for the one in the blue belt," whispered Coran, pointing out a lithe young man who was sparring against a much taller opponent. "The stake is thirty gold pieces. Care to place a wager?"

"Your man is somewhat lacking in the muscle department," said Viconia, sizing up the sparring men with an expert eye. "I prefer my males larger."

"My choice wasn't based on aesthetics but if that's what you're after forget his muscles and look at his hands!" said Coran. "You know what they say about men with big hands!"

"What do they say?" asked Rasaad curiously.

"That unseen parts of his anatomy are equally bulky," replied Jaheira flatly. Rasaad blushed. Viconia could not resist it.

"Sadly this has not been my experience," she remarked.

The party's heads turned as one to stare at Viconia and then at Rasaad's hands. Coran shoved his own fist into his mouth so as not to give away their position, crippled by silent laughter. Even Jaheira's lip twitched as she went back to watching the monks.

"You are joking again," said Rasaad stiffly. "That is good."

"After all these months of non-stop angst, I cannot believe you just said that," gasped Coran, lying helpless on his back. "Oh Viconia, you are truly wasted on him! So what about you Jaheira? See anyone you like?"

"Judging by that trickle of drool, I'm guessing either she does or she has succumbed to heat stroke. They're probably all celibate you know," snipped Viconia. Even in the shade she was far too hot. She felt like she was melting.

Jaheira made a low hissing noise and ignored the pair of them. She had not wholly forgiven Coran yet for spending the night with Arowan. Neither, judging by the way he was grinding his back teeth, had Anomen.

"We're just window shopping," replied Coran breezily. "Come on Viconia, your turn. Pick a monk!" Viconia automatically glanced at Rasaad whose eyes were still trained on the courtyard.

"No. Not that one," said Jaheira sharply. "We need you focussed on the job at hand Servant of all Faiths."

Coran leaned close to Viconia and whispered, "Seriously this has gone on long enough. It's over. Time to let go and move on."

He was right of course. Only it was hard. For female drow 'letting go' normally meant either selling her partner or slaughtering him. Viconia took a deep breath and looked, really looked, at the monks. She scanned specifically for one who did not resemble Rasaad. This was problematic because with their shaved heads and tattooed faces they all kind of looked like Rasaad. Even the females bore a passing resemblance.

"Well... I think Balthazaar sent us his best representative to hand Sarevok that invitation. The tall one with the scar over his eye. I wonder where he has got to?" Viconia mused, ignoring Rasaad who was looking like a kicked puppy.

"It seems the only way to find out what Balthazaar is offering will be to head down and ask them," said Anomen simply. "We must make a decision Sarevok."

The Bhaalspawn nodded at the others and they began to head for the ladder. Viconia looked utterly furious.

"But I only just got here!" she wailed.

* * *

* * *

They were not halfway through their descent when the sounds of an argument floated up the cliff from below. A small crowd had gathered to watch the priest of Waukeen squaring up to two monks. From the looks of things the monastery had spotted the butchered horses and were carrying them away for themselves.

"Your monastery once cared for this town but under Balthazaar you have abandoned us. Now you steal from us as well! The people are starving and your master does nothing."

"Balthazaar is concerned with greater matters, old man," retorted one of the monks. They recognised him as the one who had given Sarevok his invitation. Tall with a scar over his eye.

"Bah!" spat the priest. "He is gathering in mercenaries and wizards for an army. How is that more important than feeding starving children? In the name of Waukeen, I demand a meeting with Balthazaar! He must be made to see the insanity of his callous actions!"

The people were applauding, but the monk was unimpressed.

"You make no demands of me or the monastery!" he thundered. "Go beg your dead god to feed these people!"

"Blasphemer!" howled the priest. "I will stand for the tyranny of your monastery no longer!"

He struck out at the monk with his staff. Perhaps, based on their earlier applause, he expected the people to rise up and assist him, but they did not. They only watched as the monk tugged his staff from his hands and knocked him to the dirt with it.

"You dare attack me old man?" spat the monk. "Your death shall be quick and painful."

It was. He lifted the old man's own staff and ran at him like a pole vaulter while his partner pinned him to the ground. The end of the staff drove into the old man's neck while the monk leaped, forcing all his weight upon it. Even from their height the party heard his spine snap. Nobody from the village attempted to prevent this, nor raised any further objection to the loss of their horses.

The monks barged into the temple and by the time they emerged they were carrying the things the party had left behind and leading their three remaining horses.

"Damnation, Viconia! Why didn't you stay at the temple?" Jaheira snapped.

The drow mopped her dripping brow with her sleeve, livid.

"And what do you think those monks would have done with me if they'd found me there?" she hissed.

"Nothing too dreadful I'm sure. They are monks after all," observed Sarevok. He eyed his companion who was frozen in disgust on the rungs above him. "That said, Rasaad is a monk too and judging by the noises you two make perhaps celibacy is no longer to be assumed in the monastic orders."

"Rest assured I am done with the moon male!" spat Viconia.

"Then finally the rest of us may enjoy the luxury of a full night's sleep without being woken up by screeching," the Bhaalspawn replied sleekly. Rasaad stared ahead furiously trying to maintain self-control but Jaheira's lip twitched. Hating Sarevok, the abomination unto nature, was proving harder than it ought to be.

"You still want to confront Balthazaar?" she asked, amused.

"I fear we no longer have a choice. We won't make it out of this cursed dry land without horses," Sarevok said.

"Sod the horses! They took my armour!" Anomen realised belatedly. Shadow dragon scales. He would never own such a powerful piece of equipment again, save for Casomyr itself. And only that if the Order allowed him to keep it.

So it was that they climbed down and found themselves making their way reluctantly to the gates of the vast fortress carved from rockface. At least the canons were pointed toward the sky, though that would have been more reassuring if it hadn't indicated the imminent possibility of a full blown dragon attack. Sarevok mopped his face on Coran's satchel, dried his palms on his breeches in case he was required to shake anyone's hand and put on his best negotiating face. It was unnerving to Coran that the man could be so charming when he wished it.

Like father like son.


End file.
